how do you feel about hitler, the grass, and me?

who would sketch
my breast
if i were dead now?

sometimes i wonder
if the breast is like the
ground,
if it matters how much rain there comes,
how many times it has been tread,

and if i had been dead
who would dare sketch my breast
onto paper?

there has been you
but it has been long
and my breast is

not like that
now.

i wondered if you could fix
the backyard,
the lumps of dirt sticking up
from the grass,

and i almost asked you to
once or twice,
but you didn't seem to understand

and then it rained,

but i still wonder what it would be like
now for you to cup my breast in your hand,

it is larger than before and it is more
round and more perfect,
and it looks better naked
and i assume that it would look nice
next to you

-

i wonder what he knows about the patches
of dirt where the grass used to be,

i wonder what he knows about the branches
ten feet tall with blossoms about them