His fingers across the clay ridges Of my valleys, because he Likes the way it sounds. § I’ve been showing him where I hide My pockets of time, in the cavities Of my back molars. § I’ve been painting my ribs Blue to match the spokes of The tires on the bike He learned to ride as a boy. § I’ve been tying ribbons From my eyelashes, to cover wallpaper Roses that do not wilt. § I’ve been picking pieces of Old flowers from my teeth And throwing them in a jar For a story to tell later. § I’ve been folding up the Skin around my ankles to have A crease to remember him by.