Untitled

You sleep the sleek
muscles of my back:
we call them knots
like the darkened
clots of tree flesh, and
you say it that way
to show you just
discovered it. You
tell me a tornado
is an unwinding
knot of sky.
I say the men
my mother loves
tie knots, fisherman
them all, and often
they make little
gifts of them
to me.
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