by Jessica Scicchitano
as close as you'll come
something that sits amid four walls.
The blue-purple covering the hovering
blackbird's neck, the alignment –
fresh ransom to passer-by.
No one toting rosary,
tallying CARROTS by Hail Mary,
3, possibly 4 x per week.
to write sins on your cheques or cheques
to your sins.
The deep technique of KIWI,
its fuzz erotic from byzantine humidity,
sour from thought on how to
pronounce their location of origin;
here comes the texture of a clock.
The cardboard sign that bares
JUICY ORNAGES [sic]
your name, more ripe,
the gusto, my terror –
Boar's Head turkey,
slivered by moonlight.
The briquettes – turn right –
of Japanese Lanterns that rise and
caught by a fuck-ton of Boricuas,
Are you the undertaker of last week's sunflowers?
load the scroll of Lotto?
Will that bee
sacrifice itself for you
as it comes for those SPECIAL MANGOES,
those GOLDEN DELICIOUS?
wring speed until it's sweet,