Etrog (Picnic 2nd draft)

An ink crow
smudges the mist
of the sattelite orchard,
294 television screens,
the transposed bodies
of men flickering.

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.

I settle downto peel.