I am worried about the heat flagged down by mercy
that makes red dust whirlwind itself
in perfect DNA spirals
on skinny country sidewalks.
I am worried that walking there
will fill my head with babies
and your belly with leaves.

And I am worried like a broken priest
when you come to me,
soft-bellied and sensual,
tense as a newborn crying.
I am worried that I will make love to you for ten hours
behind a guardrail
and make you very late in coming home
to all your other husbands.

And I want to meet you in a whirlwind
on one of those broken paths
nameless and alone, unable to see
one another, feeling in the powerful dark
sunlight.

I am worried that my voice goes on too long
in the wrong places, and stops crucially
when it would otherwise
become a part of your body.
I am worried that my voice cannot
love me in an echo from a woman's body,
and I beg you to shut me up
with your hands beside my knees
and your rear-end on my mouth
while you rip up the grasses, solemnly
like an angry child.