the light streak from the windows form a highway on your arms:
six lanes, both ways and an interstate we have, tobogganing over
the freckles of your arms—those potholes that wreck my buzzing fingers
as they (dare i say) drive over your little hairs. your elbow makes the exits
where i merge to your shoulders and let my hands rest
for just a moments, working them and making your neck crank back
and moan like the roar of a semi—i notice there are never any semis
on the highways on Sundays, like those across the freeway find a shady tree
to rest under like God said, so i wonder if my hands can idle
for so long upon your circling breaking shoulders:
so now i move down, heading south under your collar bone
which you say must be blocked off for repairs but i drive through your warning signs
doing eighty-five ninety because i have places to go.
off the highway, country roads laced with bumps and hills
and a brace myself: landscapes so soft i can’t help but take my tongue and lips
just to have a taste—home sweet home, of course, my mouth wrapping itself around
these stones.
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