The bloody vomit
Of a sick smoker splattered
On the cement in front
Of the stalled midnight bus
looks like a cherry smushed
under a heel.
His kisses are stems, little
Strands of red lust stringed
Between teeth and tongues.
Didn’t your mother tell you
Of how cupid steals stems for growing
From under uvulas in open mouth
Embraces when teenagers aren’t
Careful?
The fruit itself is a
hand holding a baseball
and preparing to
chuck it into the infield. It
never hits the dirt, but finds
glass filled windowpanes and
shatters them.