3

My plate wrote this

Narrative of the fruits, of

My disemboweled avocado

And its spectral odyssey. Green cat’s

eye to bloodfruit

Riddled with black thready faults

Oxidating there and later brown as

Leaves. Of the petal

Lobe or lung

Of dried apricot, which glowed

Amber when lifted to the bulb:

The things it did and could

Not do, tragedian fruit.

In places, in shelves, spice bottles

Accrue into tiny cities. These

Sprout a molecular dustforest canopy.

The iterate dust falls and rises. Fade,

curl.

What is the jeweled thing of yours that you carry

In your reflection

I mean girders in your spine, the bridge

Thrum and taut. The precise

Syllables of window and crosshatching, in which

Your blackest parts empty to plain geometry.

The leftover lights are rotting on the vines and

The timber is all fallen, fur or metal filing.

Everything comes together for a second and

Moves apart.