skin

on the sunning stoop I am sitting
peeling an orange and listening
lisa talks about how
to build a forest.

the knees of my purple leggings are
coarsely capped with powdery grime
of dubious composition accrued while
kneeling and digging on hard warehouse floors.
my hands, I think, my hands, and I consider
popping the first section into my mouth.

you must strike the delicate balance,
lisa is saying, between the builder
of the forest who is responsible
for its ultimate fallability,
and the seeker whose task it is
to accede to the solace of its limbs.

my feeding hands must be equally full
of the unknowable dust I know to hold far
further than one arms length but instead
I bend at the elbow and pierce sweetness.