I swallowed a pit.  A burp in the pie
 
of cherries I’d eaten—   I spread out
the picnic blanket.  Under a star-spangled bomb
 
later on when I saw in the mirror:  The drupe
that was me, duck-walking.  Stuck with the hatching
I puked.  Up to me, you said.  Forming
 
This drain of bone.  This balled-up fist.  This
skirt that doesn’t fit.  Get rid of it— This
quick as sin.  This fatal paper gown
 
I chucked the skillet like a discus at your head— missed
It burns me up, I said.  A pie in the sky now a humorless
bump. A summer as reckless as seed.