An X marks the spot
Where a grape with teeth
Sucks up a black hole
In a Honey Bucket

Sucks off a campsite in a sleeping bag

Jumps from one cool blade of grass to another cool blade of grass

A living freckle
That knows your name and knows
That it is spring and feels a kind of imaginary privacy

Touched beneath your socks

Touched beneath the elastic in your waistband

Check
Behind your elbows
Check behind your knees

They don’t sing
They walk right in
You notice you are more than one and then there they are

A period at the end of a long sentence

Teeth marks from a black sewing machine

Mom’s eyelashes

Brush it
Brush it
Brush it

The sprinklers play Bach partitas in the driveway between parked cars and abandoned Big Wheels

I can feel a little pinch every once in a while

Inside they are full of other people’s blood and the evening breeze and wakefulness

They seem to weigh nothing at all