the lichen you— the morning

with rain— gave me the moss—

wraps more green

than the bag a day you collect— i

keep by the bed— you, me

before— an umbrella— glowed by—

— this morning, finally— under

the awning with blue ribbon, bag of

lichen and moss on the bedside: a tummy full of different figs

bit in half then squeezed to show

juicy brown or tan some red inside

wet six outfits in three days—

all colors and gay plaid, my arms,

legs, nerves find no

lack of these green things

—as i mention them—

heart whirs—

i was, today, hooked first

/

—i heart figs