I like your color
when you move off the spectrum
I like the movement
when you lose your lard like a drunk motorcyclist
on the thinning road.

Fenced-in kisses
where we dropped an icecream
captured ceilings
where the sky's pummeled by cartoonish boulders
and antique anvils
we pull the wet pages together
without covers

we fence in our kisses
and the sky torpedoes the objects,
the objects with the most life,
the jerky blueprints, the fuzzy
stuffed animals making love
in the shadows of the roots

of trees that have fallen
hard on our world
the wet soil rained
on clumps on slithers
into paint into burnt things
through a scarred rain. The wet charcoal
we wrote with, on a greying leather jacket
you dropped
in a storm
that won't come again.