I love you a little.
It’s enough, perhaps, to
fit tight in a matchbox and
(my sincere apologies)
tuck into the catch-all drawer.

Tuck into the catch-all drawer
my sincere apologies,
fit tight in a matchbox.
It’s enough, perhaps, to
love you a little.

We plucked eyebrows
from the clover.
Caterpillars
contracting as
we pinched each one
between our plump
baby fingers,
expanding as
we lined them on
each other’s arms—
wooly train cars.
They would ripple
blindly, segment
by segment, scoot
across the floor
of the rusty
coffee can we’d
prepared for them
so carefully—
braided hairs of
grasses, flowers,
twigs, stones and all—
a crude and cruel
imitation
of their clover,
but certainly
better, somehow.

We were sure.