.           The hands acquire a flavor

when walking in a field, behind

.                           the last house in the development,

.            Some Pleasant Something-or-Other,

Fill-in-the-Blank Heights,

.                           where goldenrod flail skinny

.            necks over curbs and burst

into tough glorias, where strays

.                           overrun the undeveloped

plots, pick among

.            the CA$H ONLYs and radiant

.                           glass of shattered T.V.s.

Burrs collect at our cuffs and hair,

.             along the dingy ridges of socks,

.                            hands sling slack at sides,

scrape twigs and pods.

.              When mothers sing

.                            their suppertime rondo,

we forget to wash, taste weeds

.                winding through the salad, wilderness

.                             lumbering in the roast.