the cop car roars by and ordains himself a liar
strands of my black hair fall fast and i call myself
the ugliest
i would claw at my face's windowframe like so many
wheels clutch at potholes but
my fidgeting hands are full with two bruised
persimmons, forlorn from their fall off
the tree
i bought them when i couldnt buy my reasons
for roaring up the interstate, pushing on
the clutch as desperate as my thighs push on your
ruddy ruby red ears
i stopped when i sold out my standing at the university
and bought these persimmons, sandpaper felt wet dreams on
the tongue
and crouched in the shadow of a meadow behind
the fruit stand
in fresno. imagine my surprise when orange silky skin
scuttles away from prying fingernails, opening like
rotting wet floorboards. i like it, this pulpy glove
sliding down my arm
the weathered brown face languishing beneath his straw hat and
the fruit flies didn't seem to mind when i
whisked my hand over the stand for a couple more
he didn't wake up, anyway i would have gotten them any way
i could to fill that wicker basket you picked out because
thank you for
the hows of
no the ways which

no you just remove the pit lodged between the buds of my breast
when you kiss there like so, like feathers, like a quill
puncturing the roaring rot of a seed
you pull me out so delicate