it's the first of march.

i see tan caramel 

and coffee sun 

limbs 

entangled with 

cheek brushes and 

eyelid sweat 

vines, plants us to this 

back-sore wood,

engraving small minds 

to older brains 

nails, nip and carry 

this budding 

pain.

generation, can't you

hear me?

i come up from 

these roots 

and i see a 

                      folding.

four hands lead the fruit

– s.p