by Seth Berg
I peel a quiet fruit while walking
into a mean southern wind;
I pretend I am a traveling massif,
grassy but strangely human.
Moist and sensational,
the fruit tendrils
adhere to my thumbs
like ridiculous little tails.
Amplifying its particled self,
the wind shoves the fruit
from my hand and asks me where I was
before God put on my bones.
