Fertile Ground

Dig yourself into the layers of soil my body has sown for you
so we can watch the way a wildflower blooms.

Let’s grow gardens that’s a derivative of you
and me,
and love,

and tend to the tiny agriculture we seed between my bones.

(The Logs Never Run Out)

You sent me a picture of you in your long johns

when I was ½ way across the country wanting to pull them off of you,

wanting to be cold with you in Milwaukee

and build a fire between our bare bones

until the logs run out

and we are winded from keeping warm.

Into/ In To

You said

I’m way too

in

to you.

 

I wasn’t sure in which way you meant,

so I just moved

slower,

let you breathe through movements

so that moments lasted

longer

(somehow noon before getting out of bed with you-

falling in and out of sleep and woven arrangements

with you).

 

I took notice of blue shadows where the sheets creased,

your eyes (green today),

looking back at me.

 

You don’t look at me simply.

There are novels in your eyes.

 

 

If you meant otherwise-

I know.

I’m in to you

too.

Like This

Like you would with the fuzz on a peach

by rolling your fingers over it, your thumb-

notice it.

 

Allow your fingers to round

over where it rounds

and sink

into the spaces where depressions have been formed.

 

When encountering tender spots, treat them tenderly.

 

Notice the varied shades-

how the marigold flesh

delicately turns blush and

into crimson.

 

Then notice it this way: with your mouth-

the way it feels against your lips,

your tongue.

Slowly work circles around the pit

until eventually

that’s all that’s left of it.

 

And for a moment longer than you might think needed,

just be still.

There.

With it.

 

Languidly pull your mouth away

to keep the juice from

dripping over you.

Taste it one last time-

the ripened, sweet juice.

Normal, With You.

Through a pane of glass
all of the leaves still left on trees
this morning
press shadows
over warm wooden floors
where the sun has hit.

Blurred edges defining shadow from empty space,
the stillness in movement,
the song in the silence of event,
warmth even as seasons change cooler-

sure- the vents, trapped sunlight. But a bit magic,
still.

The leaves progress steadily, as though forever they could,
as though the sun will never drop to stop strobing against.
There’s comfort in the normality of it,
and without pinnacle: lovely,
still.

This is how it is with you.
The sun sweeps over you
and I see how our clavicles line differently,
mine drape downwards towards the center from both shoulders
like a fallen landscape.
Yours like a shelf across your chest
as though a carpenter proudly put them there,
hung them with calculated intent
and you don’t even know how beautiful you are.

Subtle movements shift the shadows under your bones,
the angles at your joints, your lines
emphasized through different gradients of light
amongst the fabric and folds of cheap powder blue sheets.

Even the way you breathe in to me-
cause me to breathe like that again.