I knew a man who could touch fruit with his bare hands.
I knew a man who could hold the sea on his tongue.
His shadow stretched like the fig tree’s in afternoon sunlight,
the bristles on his jaw stung like pina. His voice curled,
curled up, shrill with the rooster, though it was past daybreak and morning
had already faded onto the knees of his blue jeans. His hunger was my own.