we are standing like trees,

tall as nothing, blocking

sun; any breeze

slight

as a whisper would

break our arms:

bent over

as one with

a twisted back,

you are old as

a shrub. and

then, hair

gathered in links

long as foliage,

bites the soil and,

drooling,

we

chase each other

like dogs.

at one time,

we kissed

as young mothers

practicing

pregnancy.

once

we touched

as fools and

smiled with slit

throats from ear

to ear.

then a coffee cup and

mattress: both

with broken handles:

both shattered later when

we squeezed them

as hands in

perpetual prayer.

now you are saying,

“save the house and

save the soil and

save the blood that

runs through it all and

spare me if you can.”

and i have picked

up the old profession of

solitude also,

leading the sun

down like a

parachute and

throwing it over your

broken back.