Gumdrop

The sun rose on us, two 
dewed and flecked with grass,
freshly mowed by whom 
I cannot say. 

Back of my knee, 
clay in the crease,
deveined with a slice 
of your tongue.

Paths paved 
neck to navel, 
cloverleaf prints 
on shanks.

I whisper a wish on a blowball 
and it takes. 

Pink thistles and honey bees, 
arms spread wide, snow angels melting,
gingerbread dolls with red-hot smiles, 
grasping at nothing 
and wanting for less.