August 17 2013

Petals like eyelids, like shells, like dresses,
like scoops that hold dear every tear that it gathers.
In fragrant handfuls she waits for bits of soup:
my heart soup that's dripping through
my crevices that I try to squeeze tight.

Vines like fingers, like rivers, like ribbons,
like incomplete reaching toward the farthest gasp of air.
At my core, behind my ribs, he's grabbing at guts;
keep going, keep going,
so those toes can always wander.