You are my boys without hair,
without long locks which lay like
noodles against your back.

My fingers curl
like snails about your wrists.
I leave rose bruises
on the undersides of your arm
where I kiss with only
the tip of my tongue between my lips.

I kept a garden of carrots only
because you once told me you used
to ride horses.

Every horse rotted.

You boys with your
femurs extended, just like the brachiosaur,
your feet will never leave
now that they have made love
to the ground.

Take note as I pull your depths
from my inner thighs
where all my secrets
are cupped.

Not because I care—
more than the swirls inside marbles—
but there is a mole
burrowing his way through my chest.

Be warned of the warm winter breezes,
my most beautiful lovers.
You are too much for the cold.
Tidy yourself in the wells;
it is nearly December and
every robin has a new nest.

12/04/2006

Author's Note: I have an infinite number of branches.

edited March 17th 2008

Posted on 12/05/2006
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