by Christine Neacole Kanownik

Big handy hairs and fur trimmed magnetism
And he dances like I never wished I had to
With brisk, solid movements that germinated plantations
And laid fields of sheep and grain to waste
He slept beside cities, but not me.
I would have fit perfectly inside a pocket
Any one would have done nicely
Pants, shirt, the small one for his keys
Oh to receive the privilege of being crushed
Beneath his rib cage and his clavicle.