by David Rawson
were fat, shedding feathers, sweating oil,
flicking tongues, bodies the color of cotton,
singing out love to trees that knew bruising.
Ours was a love of footprints, the pruning of love
for millennia, until the ice age almost pruned it out
completely. Ours is a love that was meant to shiver.
We are lovers who forgot there was meat in there,
that cartilage even is a kind of love.
We scattered at the sight of eye-line ankles, the trees
that bite before they kiss.
We will always know a love taller than us.
We will always duck when it begins to snow.
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