their brown sides hung from nape
to tailbone, a two-pole tent,
their legs like switches. Walking
in the meadow, we step over dung:
the dry flat discs, some wet with midges.
Daisies sputter in the heat
as we lie down, the milkweed crushing
beneath our backs, its creamy stems.
We shiver in our skins.
Who looks beyond us, tangled, feeling
for what we are, looks too far.