you're supposed to have roots
in the air or the ground
it doesn't matter where
the apricot tree
has its roots and
the fruit when it falls
high with the cloud
you pick in your small
fenced in orchard
before she can take a bite
abruptly sour
and you shoot the sky
to ward off even the
beaks of her birds
it's a wonder it grows
no one is allowed in but you
in the summertime
it's like burning your pages
in a pile of smoke
like erasing your memory and
reason at once
keeping a secret with
an eyesore of a tell that
you're darkly harboring
some will speak to
raze the forest down
but everybody has to be careful
you'll say
mouth in a twist
with a sharp pit therein