Bruised Avocado Poem by James McLain

At I sing out to the sting of her wide hips.
I am not afraid as I was by her taught,
I look up to the light across from the sun,
my skin on fire, it is cold hear him say

or

This is the time of your ripe mouth,
like a soft avocado bruised it is opened,
but your mouth where I am and who am I,
I am slow.
Excessively am I slow it's because.
Slipping from that and I am and your hot,
and already is it limp as it lies drying,
is grapes purple crushed interest.