that year, we scrambled the seasons
so a summer yolk bled gold
into our white winter pages
leaving our islands on a plane
we watched the clouds pull a mottled curtain
between ourselves and our mothers
in a camper van, we etched lines
into the pale stretch marks of America's belly,
littered mountains with conversation
we built our own climate with our lover's arms
wound a thread through an atlas
cross-stitched
with icicles and sandstorms
we entered the new year with sepia forearms
a thousand rivers gushing through our heads
stomachs rounded, full of sun
Apr 3, 2012
Apr 3, 2012 at 11:39 AM UTC
that year, we scrambled the seasons
so a summer yolk bled gold
into our white winter pages
leaving our islands on a plane
we watched the clouds pull a mottled curtain
between ourselves and our mothers
in a camper van, we etched lines
into the pale stretch marks of America's belly,
littered mountains with conversation
we built our own climate with our lover's arms
wound a thread through an atlas
cross-stitched
with icicles and sandstorms
we entered the new year with sepia forearms
a thousand rivers gushing through our heads
stomachs rounded, full of sun
past version of 'climate'- any thoughts on which you prefer welcome.
