Christopher

Teeth laid in porcelain face—
the skin, molars. Bone-colored,
carrying bridges. Come to me,

angular body and hands
clutching a book. Its blue
cover’s threaded, paled in age.

You read about brothers—a story
of birds and instinct, of greed. Hold
yourself, damning all the manmade.
Lies. You read desire differently.

I give you wood to build with.
Your body opens, touches bones,
yellow teeth. A story bends,

skin over the water.