I snap a seed between my teeth
my fingers pet
your thigh.
one is brown
I say it’s good
I make up a story
it’s burning in its home
it’s baby turns over on its back
and no one will save it
both burn
one is spotted
writes for the tree
every day plots escape
dreaming of movie sets.
the third is white
and doesn’t give up
ecstasy of a hair
the censorship of taste.
with the windows rolled down
you may save
the last story. you may allow
yourself the false notion
of moving muscles & tearing
fences. so we are private
and depraved and proud
and I am twisting my fingers
once more
in the loose change of yr pocket.
© 2003 a.k.