Pubate

I would climb an oak with woven mittens

to prove that you undoubtedly fit inside me.

Your monocle is pleasing and my white

shorts are arbitrarily white

with blotches of redwood from hysterical

snorts at your vocabulary.

I would have been deeply in this hobbed

tree – burrowed into the rotting wood like

a wrecking worm. I wanted to you, so,

to hold my sticky feet inside your hands like

you would a small dead humming bird

but if you were to crouch, I

 would need a decade of forgiveness.