slow hold

the gentle
plains of your body lay

unconstrained by seams
beneath slow palms. slow

as they could go.
eyes I knew, even

in shadow: your mother’s
blue kindness. (was she

also a sharer of spinach
and rice?)  silver

caravan, Cache La Poudre
could not contain the crash

of us, or our condensation,
clouds born of pulsing

breath and skin blushing
windows. finally, out in

the air, Hold raised her head.
Owl asked questions.  we smiled

inches from the beds of
our lips, faces reflecting

suns of bare teeth
hiding tongues.


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