Like Shale in Your Pockets

Tread quietly, soldier.
Kiss without the danger
I feel in your pulse.
It makes my dishes rattle.

Slide your fingers through mine
and trace them
like the bits of skipping shale in your pockets.
Leave your boots on the porch.
The toes are spite tipped
and covered in a smaller town's dust
that conquers you instead.

I need what you need,
but breathe softly here at my ear,
and the fingers you hold --
like shale, sweet thing, like shale --
will slide down your aching back.