Kathryn Petruccelli

At times, I write from a list of words
gleaned from poems
I point to at random. Clusters
of nouns I gather to me—fruit
warmed in the sun. Verbs like release,
choose, apologize, glaze the page
in jolts and juices before, yes,
the adjectives arrive: crunchy
because of the teens at the café
with their bags of chips, languid
because who doesn’t want this word
dripping with laziness to enter the space
of creation, and bloodshot like a challenge,
already boasting its many targets.
Listen. I’ll only say this once. 
I want to apologize for the bloodshot sun
that ruled your boyhood. But I cannot
release you on my own. If you choose
to walk with me further into this late
season, leaves crunchy under our boots,
we never know what fruits we’ll find
at the market. In front of the stalls
of bread and misshapen carrots,
a small, white-furred mutt rolls
in the languid grass and the air that occupies
the space between our two hands is warm.