I pile a multitude of fresh persimmons
on the cracked-up sidewalk every day
like so many pink suns setting on
a suburban Patagonia where they
rot between crooked lines of grass
and leave pale seeds like blind eyes
staring at the roots and steel branches:
my roots are rotten railroad tracks baptized
by years of dead leaves encrusted in rust,
and they breed branches like methed-out purple veins
that shed cinnamon sticks kids hang in their trucks
to hide the smell of weed-smoke from the same
girl from Mystic Lake who asks, “Do you know
how to make a pudding from the pulp in your sole?”