she sticks to it as if her blood pumps right through it,
her veins are onions bulbs penetrating deeply in the concrete
—nothing can pry her out; you can't pick her
eat her or even taste her: she'll just hold on tight
and prick you with her fleshy thorns.
she clops along as a camel in the deserted city:
there's a time and a place for it all and her time is now.
her hands are still leaves in the Indian summer
as if glued to the boughs that are her arms.
she does not rot: she ferments like California wine—
she's Nappa's daughter, with a smokiness and a good bite
(more like a beer than a stiff Chardonnay).
i got too drunk from her fruit
and too full from her bulbs.