The imprint of my flesh on
Theirs. Their skin soft fuzz of
Running down their sticky hands,
The sharp angle of their wrists.
The rain shower of their voices, how
The dusty dusk glow leaks
On their nightlife limbs,
Painting them bright, how
They look like fireflies when they run.
The white bone of their teeth,
Bare-footed and easy smiles,
My wild things.
I tell them, never forget the feeling
Of handpicking fruit from a tree. The ripe
Of it bursting soft in