one year, we will scramble the seasons
so a summer yolk bleeds gold
into our white winter pages
leaving our islands on a plane
we will watch the clouds pull a mottled curtain
between ourselves and our mothers
in a campervan, we will etch lines
into the pale stretch marks of America's belly,
litter mountains with conversation
we will build our own climate with our lover's arms
wind a thread through an atlas cross-stitched
with icicles and sandstorms
we will enter the new year with sepia forearms
a thousand rivers gushing through our heads
stomachs rounded, full of sun