i read the monkeyhood's pulse on my palm lines
and i felt the reddest flood
on all its curves
and felt the wildest flow
rather than a greenish rainbow
i was nine years old
didn't know how to climb or jump anywhere, anywhere like warm bosoms or the trees that animals merrily call home
maybe there were bosoms that would make one feel at home,
merciful and wholly warm
maybe trees were sweet like a greenish rainbow
but now i know blood is an illusion
