What do you think you’re doing
     lying on your back
wearing nothing but little springs of heather
which will surely cause clouds to descend on you,
     and roughly?

What do you think
     broad moor, as beautiful as someone
     looking into the mirror, loving
her own ravishment,
     the distortions of her face from the storm’s knuckles
     because she would not hide?

What do you
     want us to do, we insect-lived women who climb
     your swells in our muddy boots and breathe in
what you allow and
     imagine it freedom?

Think.