For R
If your skin were fine sand
I’d burrow
to the bone
planting apples for the morning
If your skin were slate
I’d chisel leaves
and branches
bowed with yellow blossoms
If your skin were moss
I’d drift in the tendrils
sleep between your ribs
with the drowsy snails
If your skin were oil of cobalt blue
I’d scribble fingers
with long strokes
up and down the breathing of your spine
If your skin were field grass
I’d rake the cuttings gently
sucking down
the faint odor of rain
If your skin were rivers
I’d bob for crayfish in the pools
rescue quail and white peacocks
from the flooded banks
If your skin were air
I’d conjure bats to glide
mercilessly
through the waves of tiny flying eyes
If your skin were ice
I’d wrap you in the womb of a wolf
stroking her belly
with oil of mulberry and eucalyptus
If your skin
under my hands
almost iridescent
in this dark room
reached warming
your sealed, secret, supple
skin…