Hoodie

Say you follow in stores of convenience

down aisles marked Deleuze,

tip-toeing around black bods

laid rhizomatic and prim,

as drawstrings pull and tighten

around your imaginary

until it spills into the street

bilious, in a blaze of skittles

and having plucked the low hung fruit,

despite having, at last, uprooted the poplars of yore,

you find blood underfoot. What then.

On the contrary my love, theory is yet dead.