we run like dogs,
we're tidy like books.

at night,
we climb in our favorite fantasies
like bath tubs of old porcelain
where the chips tell a tale
we drink and we loosen our lines
and we sing a little louder and we lust a lot longer
and we let our feelings get the best of us
the very best of us gifted to madness
and we play with our words like hop-scotch or bird song
and we retire to soft arms that we hook
and pillows with a billowing view
and long, sweeping novels just to read someone write "forever"

and on days when the sun vaults through
pines like shafts of powdery light,
and holy sight,
we are freckles, eyelashes and fingertips,
we are the first people,
we are the last people,
we are the creek.

we are laying on stones
and blessing our own weight,
we are bodies without a care,
we are rushing by fervently
without going anywhere.