An X marks the spotWhere a grape with teethSucks up a black holeIn a Honey BucketSucks off a campsite in a sleeping bagJumps from one cool blade of grass to another cool blade of grassA living freckleThat knows your name and knowsThat it is spring and feels a kind of imaginary privacyTouched beneath your socksTouched beneath the elastic in your waistbandCheckBehind your elbowsCheck behind your kneesThey don’t singThey walk right inYou notice you are more than one and then there they areA period at the end of a long sentenceTeeth marks from a black sewing machineMom’s eyelashesBrush itBrush itBrush itThe sprinklers play Bach partitas in the driveway between parked cars and abandoned Big WheelsI can feel a little pinch every once in a whileInside they are full of other people’s blood and the evening breeze and wakefulnessThey seem to weigh nothing at all