Season to season
Alia Hamada

Tomato miscues
in pots
-- is it

snails? Slime,
broken, leaf
agleam, but vine

vultures
flut, strut, in day,

no matter sun
glint.
Holes poked,

stretch
tomatoes. I know
autumn,

flies hide
in ooze, red

popping.
Still polish
outside skin,

wed, when
we grow,
we hide like that?

Sacks
of uneaten fruit,

webbed
street cracks
and no spiders.

A brown yard
undulates
morning glories,
a take over.
This dress makes me

seem pregnant
(but not in wind), waxy
sunlight plays

summer,
but it's not. Wind lies

for fruit of earth,
from off-screen
ground. Squirrels

nettle, dead
tremble -- recalling
all the green rind.

My face
thick, dimpled sweat

creases.
There is no rise
in feeling, if we

started
over again.