I cannot love you all and I won't.
The shoulder knows the will of the heart and its way around
a crowd. The clam-soft give. The crack of the shell.
Help me recognize your humanity -- talk in a low slow voice,
wave your lunch bone arms.
The children with keys at collarbone are building fires
in the tunnels, forts at every junction.
Let them go. The way is littered with leftovers --
pale white stalks, tender volva. Pick one. Another.
There are other ways home.
Brushed metal canines, the gate, will score
what you can afford to leave behind.
Impress me with your stones, your height.
The sweet dip of your neck.
All that you love,
keep high.
-- Union Station, Dani Couture.
