i try to read but stare out the window.
everything is raw and warm: the sky
is touching lips
with the snow.
i try to read; i ignore the wet
spinning between my legs,
i shift in the chair and wait for the boy
i do not think about thick, ripe peaches falling
into open hands,
virgins getting fucked,
their teeth catching on the plum skins,
the juice like
blood on their snow-white hands.