Crouching over an old book
our vertebrae: hooks; heads: bait.
There is grass in the binding and the
creek babbles like aunties at bedtime.
We shudder with the trees and drool
over yellowed instructions in the mud.
Look for a spiritual triangle, so we
spread our fingers wide and hold each
other’s hands. Eyes roll and nails trace
lines in the skin, punctuating in points.
If the contours in the brain draw lines on
palms then we no longer need speech,
I say. His neck snaps back and he howls!
In the morning we will walk the dog
and hum over toast and scan newsfeeds
for hope and never understand one another.
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