Chosen Birthmarks

Slinker slider slither sludge
Landing near the tops of fudge
Down the back and up the side,
Where do chosen birthmarks bite the tide?

Fat the crimson Denver in the wind,
Bend the britches frozen by the sand
Between the icy toes of all the beds
Of Easter, loving, lest the rain be driven by the praying hands
Down
Back
Under the Easter-tide but always
Up
To
The
Sky
Below my hips and sunk into my eyes.
I pray for rain.
God, I pray for rain.