poem: summer fruit in the city

so is this what it takes? we are not meant to speak

of the inner life, the girls falling like apples;

it should all be chaste: small stories

of people kissing in stations and camps,

her glory fluttering under your hands,

her becoming

all raw and red. you thought you were a god

because she liked you, because she licked pencils

to the sound of your heartbeat. I hate to tell

you, but girls are all

monsters: we want sex

and nothing else.