the sky in your palm,
it is milking:
i could a thousand count photographs between freckles
i could some graces find new
just outside your lung,
mainland
these scapulas patent navigation
better than ecco-ever better than,
or at least with brows a kinder furrow
amiable for /amiable
smooth neck pulley
i could fall, small of back
lay there curving
become boat
you have your spectacle,
i have mine
we could make a deal —
take this island &
my right hand will
if yours left still hungers
junebugs, tattered firework lanterns
don't shake your head like that, say so
sometimes these trees look mountainstone
& spine finds burden, killer
fresh grannysmith.
Return to the Summer Fiction index.
