Picnic

An ink crow

smudges the mist

of the sattelite orchard,

294 television screens

like Dali's window,

the transposed bodies

of men flickering,

etrog sweet.

I am the heart hunter

plunging through the trees,

prick the pregnant

boughs, burst fruit

flesh with my tongue.

I write my section six

on sliced white bread,

my right to squat

inside you,

but up ten hundred

flights of stairs

where light melts

my shoes, you wrap

yourself tight,

nut skinned.

My abortion sprayed

up the trunk,

I settle down

to peel.