Love is a naked thing of names
we moan as prey in scents
from toes to lips like berries
bursting for a drip.
Love listens for us with fingers
loaned from threadbare summers
tracing on shoulders secrets
our mouths cannot recall.
Love paints over windows
and we hold our sheets of smolder
on beds that tiptoe walls
until we can’t know fear from fall.
Love may run ruin
and barter in bitten tongues
all the bones it took to make us,
baring our flesh like sunrise,
bearing our skin in the nameless night.
