We beg the liminal
yet vertiginous tastes.
From the fruit-bearing world
many stand against us
for possessing bodies
where the seed dreams inward,
and the tongue seeks countries
their lap-dancers don't sell
and their wives never stay...
places that sing despite
rampant proscription
of our neural concerts.

Palo Verde branches
worshipping the color
of their own verdant leaves,
close with desperation.