You gave me your country of lightly-dusted skin,

of pink parts, of back roads,

of underpass, of Decembers, chilled,

put outside the toasty coats keeping us warm

for three fossil-fueled years.

You guided me there.  I guided you to the barrel

of my nomadic chest, heaving, stumbling, out of breath,

on new legs like fragile gods

made from fingerprint-laden glass.

I kissed the leaves of your country.

I ran naked through the meadow of its hands.

I tangled myself in the warmth of its soil.

I wrote a phantom poem with my finger in the peach of its skyline.

You guided me there, and I made myself a home.


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