Poached a dozen hard stone fruits, unripe, pure gristle,

walking down Mission in the nectarine sun,

and was victim in turn of three times as many whistles,

hip-shaking down Mission at apricot dusk.

Bled through black broderie, sloughed my loins tender,

lace-laden down Mission in the plum-purple night,

and craved hotly the touch of your metal-cool fender,

which left down Mission with you and the peach-white light.