Prickly things find float on breath
and stab at little legs asleep,
knee scabs from sidewalk skip.
You and me, babe, bowl of stew
where stems and shoots will grow
and loop. Reach for our salted lips--
staid and honey under canvas flaps
near the fire pit. I'd rather hedge
this land, this life, than break bread
or boundaries, or bones of birds--
that which the wrinkle crutch dreads
though, with slight conceal, we're fond
of death. We've seen his eyes. We've found
his hairpin path through calcium and brine
adrift in a pickling jar, alone and sane
to make dance for atone soirée
and still. For this we pay.
Our currency is wire and wound.
Pride for the love we feigned
as twill misers at the edge of wealth.