as your lovely drawl diffuses on skull-
shaped pillows. We don’t own them as we slip–
We only own ourselves. So we walk dry
under rain, and laugh
forgetting we hold books
into which women pry–and frown–
as if we held a self-summation.
But we don’t make debris
(having pulled the thorn from the other’s side),
we’re too young and unhurt to know how.