I'd like to plant something that grows,
let it be full of red juices so you can smear the street with it.

Let it have its own beginning, its own hard, elongated seeds
that can be rolled between thumb and forefinger,
sliding down a moist palm,
something that needs
a certain amount
of earth,
moisture
and light,
so you know it will continue growing, sprouting a green shoot, piercing through
the greyness of the seed,
exactly like in those documentaries
they were shooting with the miniature cameras –
first the leaves,
then the ever-thickening stem,
then the miracle of budding,
followed by the mysteries of love and death,
appropriation, pollination, dropping to the ground,
and finally
fruit,
the skin tearing under your teeth, its taste,
precisely defined as cherry
or altogether different like apple,
with no nuances in between
either or
I'd love to plant something that grows,
for I'm tired of all this dissipation, the life-defining nuances,
the incessant yes and no
the could-be and not-necessarily-so
the sure-it-will-happen and maybe-it-never-will.

Just a drop of cherry juice in my throat,
I think, and I’d be saved.