Every groove a prayer

Pit peaches and being polished clean in all of my grooves and trenches

in that poised pitied way where we bite into each other

pieces of self dribbling over our lips and

into the plump dip of the collarbone pulling apart

what poets we feel with and the last time we sat under the pulpit, carved out like petals from the sun swallowed window.

Ruby red and it’s not easy, is it?