We bob under
apple branches,
dodge woozy bees.

Gobs in our pockets,
half-zipped jackets
—makeshift sacks.

Desire unlatched,
red globes snatched
from the air the earth,

we don't even wash them.
If we don't steal them,
they'll fall fallow

too close to the source,
force the culling.
A quick wipe

on flannel shirt,
we bite into sensation
so crisp it cuts.

We spin and stagger,
our dagger laughter
slices the chickadees

from the trees, throws them
against the sky
like bottlerockets.

We're getting away with something
and we know it.
There are no reprimands,
just the ignored command
of the No Trespassing sign,
rusted and buckshot

on barbed wire
strung too loose
to hold back anything.