I’ll crawl under your skin and wear you
to scramble and scoot in the nettles and
snow-angel in the alfalfa fields. I’ll wear you
until you shred off in pieces left
in the northeast fields pieces left
on the salt block of the south field.
I’ll walk in front of the hunter’s lookout
in your skin
I’ll ask him if my rack is big enough to shoot—shoot and
stuff me for a mantle piece.
One day I’ll gather your skin layers and
glue it patchworked back together and
take you out to the rhododendrons to apologize,
is that apology enough?