At midnight I arrange
your seven ripe figs
together on a plate
and find a hint of yellow
within the glow of their green.
Plump and soft, round,
they yield to the lightest touch
like seven lolling breasts
with perky nipple stems—
a milk begins to flow
from freshly picked figs.
The skin of their uncut flesh
has faint vertical stripes
and feels a little rough
against my testing finger.
I hesitate, draw back,
then put away the knife.
I cannot slice apart these figs,
mute on the earthenware dish,
drops of moisture sweating
through their subtle pores.
Six Things to Regret about Grey
a fog that stays around all day
blurring every shivering thing;
the pallid grey of a paling fence
drained of its vital red;
the pockmarked grey of city streets,
their crumbling heaps of ancient dog-turds;
iron-grey hair that won the fight
against a younger chestnut brown;
the leaves of lerp-infested gums
turned a lifeless scabby grey;
the grey remains of last night’s fire,
slow to revive the morning after.
grey brings with it a gloominess,
a certain portent I’d rather forget
for grey will come for me at the end—
come with the waning of the last day.