A homing device activates
when you are sleepy, febrile or sad.
Your face finds its way to my long-dry breasts;
you burrow, sigh, go limp.

It’s unsafe, Baby-Man, to straddle a season.
A deciduous tree can’t decide
to skip the Fall. Weightless flakes
will cling to her canopy—
crush and crack her biggest branches.

Your breath moistens the split
down my trunk. The air chills and we rock.



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