Poet's Choice

until you find its pores, squint your eyes

at the filthy sun and run toward the flavor

factory where the cherry stench hangs

above the highway, the machines that cast

that bright net of scent into the polluted air:

its mix of chemical so thick your breath

trips as if you're inhaling jello. Lap at its

stickiness, run your rough hands through

your own gnarled hair. Repel the lover,

cast his grace at broken ground. Wear

your lover's indiscretions like stickpins

in your apple hat: rotting skin, dry as dust,