I think your legs
are the hundred miles I’d walk
alone
to a cold bed in a little hostel just outside of Denver

Your skin
is the cream-white silk
we’d pretend the sheets were made of until the too-soon
light of dawn ran us out of town like outlaws

Your hips
are the gentle rolling walk though which
glances and red lips and half-smiles
I’d want you

Your *******
are lying on a Pennsylvania hilltop
whispers sinking into downy grass
at sunset

The smell of you
is a tangle of thorn-bushes a single
split raspberry leaking fragrance
that tickles at the scratches on my skin

Your hair
is night in San Antonio
shimmering in a faint breeze off the river
my body thrums for me to dive

Your lips
are coming home