Always, your compass rose
                against my ass

when we awoke. That
I’d kiss it with

(just a little) my teeth.

In the morning, I’m more
body than a body. Your

nails tilling the grass
of my chest like a wind.

Once, you entered me
in the woods, wild

berries bleeding,
our animal

fingers. Whose
memory is the sky?

She’s seen my terrible
pleasure.

                The leaves

reaching like ribs to shelter
the soil of my bare

hip, o, the door
                you came in.