WHEN I THINK OF YOU,
I think of trampled things.
Leaves crunched underfoot, wrinkled
red balloon tethered up in spruce.
Two heart strings plucked raw and burning
at the bottom of the lake.
Four hard-knock shivers down the spine, cracked
open aortic valves spewing out that then and
this now, four silver bolts tracking down
the chest. Split sand under sweat-sweet bodies.