Lips became rock face wounds,
chapped and sore and high and heavenly
and I’d still kiss them breathlessly.

And though you walk among
the fields and fences of
my heady acre,
I’ll run the risk of failure with
all my devotion
and hand-woven, written emotion.

*It was last year when the snowmelt came, that your tarpaulin skin grew tighter around your peg pin bones.
And it was then that your coat zipper split and broke; let me take you home.