Wound down (like: duvet)

Writing for the backs of your hands, collectively
Remember how you drew tattoos of ink on wrists, on blond-tree branches,
limbs for our tree, Fam i ly (pronounced long and somewhat ironically)… remember
in corduroy kitchens (even Outlook comma Microsoft, knows how to auto-correct
Corduroy)

Wide, black whale, wide for ravers, but not the kind that float,
The kind that knock heels into floorboards
And dance sounds, unsung, from loops of drum and bass

Wrists, unbound, like a brother
changing the oil in his black Rabbit with stripe(ing)
camouflage
recharging the battery by strangers-helpers,
calm - we were like
landed butterflies, set down
in a child’s palm