meadow

we reignited,

our incarnation
lined with 

acts of service

and carnations.

i pace the hallway

looking at it 

through a prism,

all the dizzying

ways this could

spin out.

i am clay

in your hands.

you smooth

the bumps of

my back.

and turn away.

this is the actual

arc of colliding:
the insistent 

incision.

it is like i am 

sneaking up to 

a fawn as the sun

is going down,

arrested by 

how beautiful,

terrified 

to send it all 

running.