Too hot for meat and gut,

what of waterweed, custard 
of algae?

There have been kneecaps of cattle,
veins of men,

my bite orgasmic in flutter, quickened 
through intestine.

What of short root embedded in silt,
suspension of long grasses?

They sway like hairs of a drowned woman.

I have heard of bats that turn from blood
to fruit, 

of men, even, turned comrades
by way of heat under the watchful eye 

of sun, which today, is an iris to choke upon.