Never thought I'd be older than you,
already can see the monster who approaches
with eyes glittering, the one who pulls
my ear to the ground and says,
Come here little girl. I figure this homey
doesn't know what he's raving about,
beside, you warned me never to talk to strangers.
It's not the kind of Death I want, especially
if I have any say in the matter. Mine is more
like the outer edge of spring just before summer
when the Oakland hills go totally limeade,
a purity of growth that leaps from planter boxes,
begonia blossoms so pink,
just looking at them can make your heart stop.