pineapple august

we ate nothing but vertebra. sour & sharp.
slept tangled in our bareness, freshly quartered
by our father's adolescence where he was 
a produce boy. sheltered melon. paring knife
through the bone. nothing was bruisable then,
we were so sugar & so hurry. everything yellow
in the early evening. finger thumb. finger thumb.
turning on our walkie talkies & standing 
at the end of driveways to talk to the moon.
she would say, "bed time is soon" & we would reply
"i love you too much to sleep." i could have had
any kind of future, or, so a pigeon once sung
on an electrical wire. everywhere is a city
& everywhere isn't. cutting the lawn
for god. a silver bowl sweating like a stomach.
hair on my arms. hair on my neck. cicadas 
trying to go back to sleep & wailing because
they cannot. this is the awake awake. there is
nothing wider. place marrow in my mouth
& wait for the kindling fires. place a stick of incense 
in my mouth & pace the house until it feels vascular.
i'm hungry for nothing but fruit. 

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