A birch sits quietly a little ways away, its branches
like ribcages, white and peeling skin off its own shoulders
against the dark fog of this molting summer.
I touch your wrist with my wrist and get them
confused. The wind turns over and your skin
turns to braille underneath my
Ours is a careful verse;
But this isn’t a quiet poem.
English language my ass.
When you kiss me my syntax hits
the wall across the room and shatters
in shards of words that scatter
across the floor.
I lay against the white picket fence of your chest.
And the sky is a smudge of your iris.
I’m thinking of the anatomy of this earth
and how the plates in your skull have steadied in such a way
that I hope you never fall out of love with me.
The birch sits quietly
and a bluejay laughs overhead.
I can’t say I love you without the words
getting caught in branches.