By morning you quarreled for the world as
  yard or something between universe
and land– ground, to speak provincially– that
  being which, told apart from
the affairs of men, the virile, vir– or wer– (see
  werewolf)– welt of seed dropped urgently
torn apart by bird/terrestrial/whatever secular
  under the sun, intimately enclosed
us, we didn't leave. Didn’t the ends of our virgates
  meet? In the distance, grief, imaginary
wheat bowing, suggesting old work or at least
  commitment to the paltry noise
of daily business, now more dirge than ode.
  Was it at this point refusal came
to you like the haggard animal you'd built
  a discourse of? Is this rigidity
fed so hard, committed to, bruised muscle
  tracking along our field's dark road, merely
here?
  not in the gait of remorse, not– I
keep trying to say– nearly justice in its emblem,
  but rather a kind of dying
formally, not its own flesh/to its own property–
  because how can– sap driven up by the nail,
gorged upon– the vulgar idea– body quivering at
  its moment of consumption– have form
be idea, but in opposition– empty body– proximate
  not in the way of forgiveness but anger
defined exactly–