a leaf that looked like a fish fossil.
All its rib bones—spindly, imperfect,
easy to crack.
I pressed it, wet between
the pages of a book about the galaxy
where I have hovered,
for long years, peaceless & awake.
Once, I was hipless. Boyhood
swung out in front of me glazed
with permission to do & not be stopped.
In the sweet persimmon I found a bitter
mouthful of want—
to press a petal to the puddle
of my tongue & taste the seed
it came from.