There are these great distances,    in between your ribs.    I want to kiss the furrows that dip    along your side, open up dark, raw spaces,    and plant my words there.    Sow them up into you    with the traces of my fingers.    I want those words to grow in your chest,    burst forth, bloom in wild, tangled    sentences that run on and rise up    so that your eyes turn toward me even when there are these great distances.

This article appears in December 2013.

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