Baked.

Heat rhymes with movement, stiff and awake,

and chapped, the master becomes the slave

wrapped around the handle bar, with beads, not to save in cool,

but to serve the molten tool

of human, sweat and machine.

The field is swimming in dehydration.

Dust.

Heavy throat and wicker splinters, eyes that rust

in windless fever, carve snakes and ladders

up and down, blunted daggers cost the mule

harvesting virgins for the last summer's rule.

Profit, pain and age,

are three knights pushing forward.

Dirt everywhere for gold.

Our love is God.