Placed and healthy:

ripe for the joke of

the plucking and tucking

where once there was air.

We roam and stumble,

disrobed and sweaty,

through fields where

our names are unknown.

Puckered and as wise as

our skin will allow:

we’re nobody here

and it’s beautiful.

Slide in and feel the

broken, burning love

of all that is mulch

beneath our feet.

These jumpers lay

in the peace we shrug

from our shoulders.