Bury your head in the fallow field.

I will come later, when the leaves have fallen
to cover you whole in a fertile cloak of yellow-orange.
I will find you, sniffing like a dog
for your sweet scent in the mustiness.  

I will **** you gently until you stir,
alert and ready.  
I will speak in tongues of what I do not know;
suggest things I cannot give.  

We will walk,
your world reduced to a searing red of capillaries
Under the low Southern sun.  
With blind faith you will know
that my eyes are also closed.  
I will absorb the nectar of the sight of you,
falling on me like dew.  

I will lead, though you walk ahead,
into the field of poppies.