Farm, Kind Of

You shake up the blanket,
and with it the crumbs of last night's lovemaking
calling for diving swallows to compete on lost grains of gold
and hopping sparrows to fight over leftovers of leftovers
timidly sizzling in the dew.
 
I watch you,
and you watch me watching you
when you brazenly pull your left breast out from your brassiere
letting it hang loose
together with sticking your tongue my way
while the blanket floats down over me canopy style
and I feel tens of tiny clawed feet walking all over my head
picking and twitting and probably mocking.
 
Something is probably wrong
as you, mysteriously, don't follow underneath
and I worry even more when I hear the clinking of glass
and of tin and of wood and of plastic and... barks?...
a sliding door sound... come, quick!... the corner of the blanket lifts
and you throw something underneath with one hand
pulling me rudely with the other.
 
I lose my underwear behind rushing after you
while a swarm of birds and dogs and chicken and ducks
and one old goat
invades the bed pulling and snapping at whatever you threw over there
and you slide the door closed after us... quiet...
now we have the world to ourselves, you smirk
pulling off the rest of your garments
and as our skin freezes on the grass and the grass burns under our skin
I cannot shake off the awkward feeling of that old goat
looking at us from behind the window and shaking its head
in embarrassment.