preen.

your skinny ankles
dance and flop
like cousins
writing letters
talking over
strings and tin cans
plucking blades/knives
of uneven summer grass

but
hips crash like trains
and
trains crash like waves
like snakes
just imagine the dust

theres no counting casualties
in the aftermath
of

thoughtless tired hands
pulling like big gravity
like plush
like a chance to preen
in a flared lens