Lick the salt from the crest
underneath my elbow
where the flesh is softest
and my nerves are most
on end.
It’s a spot I never tell
them about.
You feel something in me,
something growing,
you know I’m antsy
itching to grow the
space between us large enough
to span separate states
and you
let your lips rest there.

The polar vortex
has passed:
it’s Saturday
and the sun is out.
I am lying on my side
facing a bookshelf
that is only
half unpacked
nearest the crack in the
window and I feel a
breeze.   I hear
a sparrow call me.
I hear a car pull away
and feel a wet tongue trace
the blue vein underneath
the skin of my arm
in wonder,
inquisition.
My hands contain
a deluge and yet
you hold them,
drunk from my fingertips.
I hear you say the slow word
I strangled:
s t a  y.
“Saturday,
and the sun is
out.”

 

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