Jeans Song

I like to follow you

by the scent of your jeans,

to linger by the stitches

and bury my knuckles

in the crooks of the pockets

while I dig for the spots

where your cologne

lies dormant like a seed.

Oh, I want to burrow my fingers

down. Down to the loops

and the tugs of the rivets

where my lips can skim

the button like a bird:

the kind of love

that hooks on to your navel,

that drops down to the seats,

to the electric leather, and puts skirts

around the ankles, and strings up

fists like crumpled cotton,

that shimmies up the rungs

of your thighs, past the tangles and

the frills of the leaves,

to the roots of the roots.

I want to grip you like the honey

between two bees.

I want to lap at the pond

and get drunk till morning,

watching the gulls

close their fists on the ripples

like the world worked over it.

13 thoughts on “Jeans Song

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