I think of the children who will never know, intuitively, that a flower is a plant’s way of making love, or what silence sounds like, or that trees breathe out what we breathe in.
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My bones is worried sick.
I sleep with my clothes on.
Full moons polish my skin
white. I close my eyes.
If I could dream no
one would be alone.
My love’s ears are sea
shells. Ocean swells of our bodies
sway the long kelp gently in their green
beds, long brown hair, her body the color
of sand, smooth as sanded driftwood. The tides
we are the tides moving the oceans
in and out of estuaries and bays
exposing each and then covering the other.
No moon today, bright sun, a school
of fish swim between us
and are trapped in the nettings of our bodies.