At root level
Grass sucks the sun green
Through its stem

The ram-Bull rises

Blown into shape
Out of mud
Swollen into prime cuts
Sodden with muscle

A heavy tart ballooning
On tittering stilettos.

Loaded genitals swing
Like billiard pouches,
A lead-head cosh,
An overloaded handbag

Full of liquid love
Winking at magpie coated cows
With one raw eye:

I am the Bull without
the horn
weary with loving
whole fields.

I am the Prologue Miller
with manners
my pilgrimage leads
to Aphrodite’s shrine
always

my wish is to lie

Limp among dribbling grass
and become green –
deeply green –
all over.