When I was a Buckle
by Mathias Svalina

Not only an equivalency, an index,
the distance between the palm & the other’s palm.
Let’s sharpen our teeth on the gravel path,
sleep standing up like a cornfield.
Let’s hide an apple where it is to be hidden.

Not necessarily to buckle up or down,
but a listing of sky-wide laughter
& the press of eyes, of hips. 
Even the broken glass across the dance floor,
even the clouds that whirl the moon,
even a glass of whiskey
& a handful of black hair
are equivalent to a buckle's mouth.

Consider the buckle’s mouth, equivalent
to the cold tremolo of a windswept sidewalk.
Consider how fingertips swirl the neck.
Consider kissing the kissed breast
because the breast is so close to.

If only to fit like soap. As with fingertips,
so with lips. Perhaps to buckle arms, to jewel
like a split apple resting on a white palm,
a single word in a infamous list.

Other poems by Mathias Svalina in ActionYes #3:
Why are all the Boyscouts Dying?
For the Eagles, Seagulls & Dieters Along the Hudson River