on the way to wetmore, I find myself
watching his hands, whose movements appear
sheltered but warm, tortoise-shelled and dipped
in metallic sod; look like the surface of a leather-hard
***,  mottled with molasses spots and inlaid with
the rivulets of earthen gold and chalk--


i can't find my heart here, on the truck bed
where my eyelashes cast too big of a shadow
on his face but i'm still savoring the fine lines,
the heat that builds where plates meet or craters
settle--we've collected here as though on slopes
(inclined to meet one another)

slid shoulder to shoulder, wound up in icy whispers
put under consideration by the stars, up for debate in
the heavens, already settled before the dawn of time
just waiting on the answers, holding reins on hearts
taking it slow


taking it slow






taking it slow