Two Poems

A Gift

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.