When I Think of You

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.

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