Sink beneath stars, into icy tacent lands
The world is a reflection, shattered ceaselessly
and mended only ever by her hands

Enter the yawning maw of the dim and thirsty deep
swim the frigid waters till the water is a mist
the potion of the seas upon the shore will creep
and the curtain will be parted by her stoney, frozen fist

The house does rise above, to house the world below
a roof of pinprick candles
through the door we all must go.

Like some pitted, coal-black dragon egg,
it sits among the other fruits, exuding weight.
It draws my eyes away from the obsequious apple and banal pear,
its shape curving elegantly between their contours.

As my hand clasps around it, I feel its skin
of sinful reptilian texture.
As I place it upon the cutting board, a hundred possibilities
spring to mind.
What will I do with this trove that lies before me?
I will take a knife
in one hand
and the avocado in the other.
I know that, like gold it will be heavy,
and will feel soft without being so.

The knife breaks the skin.
Never has so smooth a wound been made,
as the blade circumnavigates the centre.
And with a twist,
it falls open.

A blinding springtime dawns on my eyes, revolving
around a dark sun,
and the absence of one.

So perfect these halves look, side by side,
the only two pieces
of a sultry puzzle.

There is no blast of stinging scents.
They are the enigmatic philanthropists of the fruit world,
bestowing their riches quietly,
without great shows of favour.

The first long, horizontal slice slides free
and lies, curving wonderfully in and out.
Fingers reach down and arm moves up,
lips part.

The moment the vibrant green meets desiring red, I breathe again.

Nothing else in this world has such a wealth
of subtle freshness,
or spreads as soft as morning sunlight.
And yet it is never airy or thin,
but carries an embracing gravity.

I open my eyes.
The rest of the fertile crescent awaits me.

Sand dunes live
Like an apophthegm.
Grand simplicity,
Solemn, ancient-seeming.
Like ripples
On a stagnant pool
of summers time

And despite their seeming,
They change, as ripples do
Under many-voiced winds.
Gregarious and frantic
  Tearing the wise words
From each other until
They resemble anew
Ancient hills, unmovable.

With your eyes closed
By weights of air
Lie still

The heat on the backs of your ears
Stretches far to either side
Extend your tongue to taste the throes
of haste in Summer’s stride.

Loftish palaces float idly by,
Pace prestigious portents in the sky
And from their steps, stumbling down,
A preening wind upon your crown.

Your skin weeps
And you become
A marshland.

Heat-stroked pines o'ercome the air
Heavy insects cry and wail
Wing'ed, they move in slanted dances
To seek the suns neglected veil.

Hale the blossom, unfurl’d gold
Makes you forget that it is old
For nimbly, like deep thought from head
Opened eyes find sweet Summer fled.