Can tree branches whisper to me and my lover
Of the hideaway bungalows of long untold riches,
Or let the ants keep guard of the rooty sap sweetness
That threatens our elbows on the rust-painted table—

Till they whistle to the hoppers of pirated ships
Who call out in merry -- music-time making,
Rubbing jagg’d hands against neighboring legs,
til whole granules are sipped away, into mountainous kegs.

Or might the bark-bearded father give in to our begging?
let the knobs lick our knees and leaves nibble my ear—
To tell the stories of these buccaneers,
Until we tug at his beard and
flutter down with the seeds
And Plant bare feet in a castle of ants.