Stone Fruit

I have a knife for bread,
for grass golden butter
for sheep and their whey,
to drink in, to wrap up in wool
solar systems like an image,
a cerebral effervescence,
a carbonated mineral springing
correspondence between
survival and swimming,
living and singing
a song for honeybees.

The pit is never a doomed place,
it is where we grow,
like an apricot
birthed into proverbial Edens,
even figs grow in pairs,
our four-footed dimensions,
the dream time, before
fur or flock and rivers. Gossamer

moths, monarchs, grasshoppers
and no plagues.

The tree and the root
hole-up in the fruit
and nothing can reduce me
or educate my tongue
like the taste. In it
I can sense
your bitterness, your holy rage,
at the bloody hands
the heart-maker,
the smoke of fires we set
and left, forgetting
thinking it would tantalize
and draw down the messenger
like at wells, we draw-up water.

The words of making, beating
into drums and mind-numbing
bumbling associations,
all souls are like bubbles,
pie crusts to be molded and eaten
like worlds we mistake, forsaking
daisy chains for jewels.
In the pasture, I can smell
the end of it all:
It smacks of good dreaming.

Reviews

[R J Askew]

I am reading like a nervous zebra at a new watering hole.

[Ed Hart]

i'm going to kidnap you and take you to my pirate's island and you will sing to me your songs all the day long...

[Emily B]

I have often gone to the pasture to find things like peace and understanding. Cattle don't ask questions. And the grasses never tell.

You constantly amaze me.