you held my hand, only once. down on shattuck avenue.
the night you danced, in your underpants,
arms waving, eyes sparking and gleaming like blades
"whenireadyou ifalldownanddie" you said.

i unwrap gently what words i can give you:
a gourd from one wednesday may fifth
when fruits were their ripest and bursting with fullness
sour lemon three weeks later, dripping with dissent.

they fall like plump plums on the floor for you to chew
"you cherry fogged watermelon that last saturday in june."
so true, so true. ca soir au shattuck avenue, je pense que
i gave of you my soul as so much fodder, and you were the only one
who could turn it into food.