for Tomaž Šalamun

Thread of the ground trees, when our soles hit we know it is not rough water

The places where my ribs were

—a sharp barren tree skin space embedded—

ripped out on a Saturday morning

Fruit tinted summers before, eight and you stood in our kitchen

as I slid upside walls in my scrawny

I hid worms in my pockets and we dissected the mango burst fish

Brother wants to know if mud is shiny

Summer before summers we hid insects against our skin

Tropic magnolias, you held one out like an organ and I let it wither in my bird-hair