A pie-eating contest. Number three
has berries charging down his
bare beefy chest, not a hair
to slow them down.

Stare hard at the smudge
above the fourth rib,
close your eyes:
There's the bush

somewhere in Maine, next to
a thousand others, brown
factories shooting color up
from the roots, the berries

each an eye, each leaf a tiny
mouth sipping light
like milk. Boy
number three pushes up

from oilcloth, O strapping lad,
tugs at his shorts, brushes away
bits of stained crust. Number four
has won, has high-fived three,

has moved on to a vat of mud,
where she will show us how sensual
soil and water can become, when stirred,
when warmed.