Big trees grew smaller, small ones big.
I could reach the third crotch of the willow,
tiptoe to catalpa pods once shinnied up after
A fig surreptitiously picked smacked of
delights so simple they passed me by.
Mulberries mixed with tar from telephone
poles tasted of wine from Provence.
With gentle, bruising brushes, as one might
caress a clitoris, I turned gardenia
brown, its honeysuckle taint redolent
of the boy I no longer was. Amnesia
may be tractable to olphactory cure.