The red plums were much tastier last August.
Fruit are funny in that way.
Someone ask William Carlos Williams about the denial implicit in an icebox.
Let the seasons have their say.
I have been memorizing images, as if I am saving them to build upon a screen presented to a theatreful of my nerve synapses shocking and sparking at the sight: of your eyes—
projected, zoomed in tight, dimly-lit (by a reading light, maybe, or a somewhat distant lamp)—
filling up the wall, larger than each firing bit.
It’s a dark shot, but the bright blue of your eyes blinks and breathes light along my edges.
(My cell membranes, My borders of bramble and beauty.)
Closer still, you are blue lightning bolts in a sea of shallow waves.
An ocean of dilation. A swelling of air, of wind, of water.
I marvel at the leagues of your focus.
Blink through the breaking of your waves.
Dance along the mist of your landing tide.