Black and broken from bristles
that pricked the delicate skin,

blood breaks out from the tips
of your hands, which are attacked

by the dark protective shell
of industry. Withered

from the sun that burns
moisture like an engine burns

fuel. Feel the petals and remember
these hands, when they were

smoothed by the oils of orange
and rosewood and you could feel

the air dancing on your fingertips
when they moved.

Before they became numb
and unfamiliar, the product of producing

bales of the cash crop.
Grab the delicate, fur-like gold

before your agility evaporates
in the sun’s prime—loosening the grip

on your life’s worth.