The husband is a mud-on-the-boots philosophy
in old jeans, loving nothing so much as slow growth.
His thoughts are distinctly British cooperatives,
jovial stall-holders subbing each other loose change.
His chest is a trestle laid with rare meats, smelling
of the smokehouse, his belly a seed-loaf, knotted
and oddly exotic. The sex of the husband’s a plump
trout, a one-off, lolling silverside-up in its shine
for a wife with the eye of a magpie. His heart,
apparently a leafy crop, is a loom of many rhizomes
reaching furlongs – who knows how far? The husband
is mineral-rich, irregular, leaving scraps of himself
all over the street for starlings to pocket. Is a crowd
of bright skins in a bushel, wheels of feral cheese
impossible brews from the ditches. In the season’s
measures, taking the weather however it turns out.