i hear guys in suits are making

fruit illegal. they go ripping out 

the woman-trees at the roots, calling

sustenance “mess!” yada, yada! 

it’s so rare now to find fruit 

in the mess. it’s so rare to find

sweetness sticking to pavement.

but! when 

you do, it is always sacrament. 

maybe it’s under the spared 

trees at the edge of us all. maybe

you must go looking. there, 

find the scattery: blackberry, 

gooseberry, even the berry 

of the elder type. 

there is dust on this blueberry. 

you taste that, first, and it reminds

you of long-off living and being close

to that which gives you creatureness:

dirt, sweat, and real mess, 

the kind that goes without words. 

then, the skin bursts,

and you know, finally, 

sweetness 

belonging

in the sun

stretched 

for a moment

on your tongue.