Bury us where the neighborhood
begins. Under the bridge, my neck
arches into something architectural,
you pocket my hip bones, tracing
the freckled spots for luck, or maybe
just something alphabetic: the ants
swarming meat and sinew, baby fat,
crumbs chewed into the tips of our
fingers, divine. Feels wrong to think us
in love with anything godtouched.
Nights, we bike up the long road that
spills past our cul de sac. Bare trees and
feathered bodies tossing the landscape.