living room camping

anywhere can be a wilderness if you are in love
& it’s raining honeydew teeth. when i was small i would try
to build tents out of leaves & fallen branches at the creek by my house.
once, stole my dad’s bungie cords to drape sheets. they blew open
in the april wind. dismantled wings of a lazy bird.
i tried to sleep there all night accompanied by feral cat ghosts 
& trees trying to plan how much sun they would eat
in the yellow morning. in your living room,
the walls twist with root knots & ivy. christmas lights
bloom into dormant future comments. we practice
new ways to hold each other. first i am a shoe horn 
& then you are a palm full of pebbles & then i am 
the stream made of wood. the rain outside falls harder,
inventing a snow globe out of us. in your closet you have
more tents perched & unfeathered. in my dreams we are
hiking a trail made of sand. the sand spills over & over
but there is always more left. lessons in abundance i’ve learned
in your warmth: there is enough, there is enough, there is
enough. the tent above us remembers nothing 
of rainfall & closes its eyes. i too become a walnut or maybe
a spare button; necessary but resting. my leg over your hip.
your hip a private mountain where even evergreens
grow velvet bark. i’m re-learning what a forest can be.
you only need bodies & a window & maybe
the sweet honeyed coming-june grass. 
deer skulls shedding their antlers. mountain steep & shrugging. 
zip the tent’s mouth shut & we could be peach pits. pearls. pine nuts.
we could be angel sugar. pie crust. latticed.
i kiss your forehead. you smell like new flowers.
outside the birds discuss trunks & altitudes.
a bedsheet in breeze. leaves 
& leaves & leaves.  

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