perhaps

compass the dandelion

ache pushing through

each taste, each

breath shape

we make

in the weed

white clover,

nursing those soft wounds, in our hands,

shaped like dime toads &

satellites.

let the daylight lick

our necks, dapple

on the feathery grass, mowed

each month. let

it reach into our lungs, where

i’ll blow empty wishes

seven hundred miles

toward you and your hips.

for the silence and blue hair ,

between our teeth and philtrums, our

rose nickel chins,

prickle each follicle

of skin and sand i keep

dreaming of you in. if only

i could hold your hand,

the bows in your body

the perennial streams

red oaks cast at dusk, if only

i could crawl inside you & give you back all the

sweet chamomile that’s been scooped out, all the

lemons fallen, bruised,

perhaps my love,

you’d lie with me instead.