Wound is the word to imagine.

My name is trees. He hurt her bandaged
feelings. "Pride goeth before a fall," I am
reminded. Ouch, in bumpy blue notwithstanding.
Darkening red we glide...

The box of letters with spines but no legs.
An authentic map legible across her wrist.

a pitcher of water
a book on the shelf

(hip-hip hooray)

Music, for instance.

I dream a white tornado in tails.

Trees wave us past. Candle wax becomes a 
minefield. Rain yourself on a leaf. We scratch
out our names with birch bark. Lopsided moon.
Brought to you by the markers of Geritol...

The wine of sparkling stars.
A morning packed in cardboard boxes.

giraffe necks periscope to view
redwinged blackbirds be-bop through

(as ripples move across a stream)

Melting snow grows up to be a river.

It's unnerving just how natural.

The frenchiest kiss. A blur of crimson
love unfocused. Her laugh. She comes as
a winged sorcerer & I as a matt-haired wolf.
Two pieces of fruit plucked from the earth.
"Let me be your baggage," she blurts out.
With pillows & eyes for breathing...

a toss of jungle sheets
a big-hand marking the hour

(knee elbows ears lashes)

Too much rain could spoil paradise.
When the monsoons are over, one & one &
one & one still equals fourplay. Now go
to sleep for tomorrow...

and the rest is fate.