The milkmaids say Pray for their speech is reserved,
fixed here in circles of opalized light.
Presenting themselves without fancy or choice
chapped hands on the full udder’s verge,
y’know — cream-skinned, gathering toad spume on skirts
relentlessly cracking the snails underfoot —
a century later & more their compeers bow heads
to these luminous fields made of ether,
of blue & extravagant air, calling up with the same
nimble fingers their ciphered familiars,
girl-souls at large in a nonhuman hour.
Speaking their argot & screen-practiced moue.
Not to you, with your paper, your man-heavy shoes,
untouched by the mulch of the digital yard!
They only gaze rapt at threshold, milk spilled.
No purchase for you here, Sir, & no clue —