I cannot love you all and I won't.The shoulder knows the will of the heart.The clam-soft give. The crack of the shell.
Talk in a low slow voice, wave your lunch bone arms.The children with keys at collarbone are building firesin the tunnels, forts at every junction.
Let them go. The way is littered with leftovers—pale white stalks, tender volva. Pick one.
There are other ways home.
Brushed metal canines, the gate, will scorewhat you can afford to leave behind.
Impress me with your stones, your height.The sweet dip of your neck.
All that you love,keep high.
