This is what passes for dreaming
in the blue house, the decay of my good days.
Again, the bowl of fruit awash in the creeping light.
What is left of the sun canters dimly
through my kitchen window, and I eat in pinches,
through my kitchen window, and I eat in pinches,
small divots of green swelling
between my fingers. The air is still,
between my fingers. The air is still,
a lake of caution. I hold everything closer,
trusting the room to stay still,
even as the curtains quiver. I couldn’t name
even as the curtains quiver. I couldn’t name
what travels through this house,
funneling through the doors, the untouched pipes.
funneling through the doors, the untouched pipes.
Because on an untrained tongue,
fruit sounds like the passing of water—
any moment now, the foam crowning
any moment now, the foam crowning
its banks, a morning crescent blown wide
across the table. I rinse my face
across the table. I rinse my face
in the white sweetness. At the market
I am drawn to the seeds unbuttoning their coats,
I am drawn to the seeds unbuttoning their coats,
the lewdness of an ossifying winter.
What is so difficult to describe
about fruit? Their shadows, how they harbor
about fruit? Their shadows, how they harbor
a tendency toward rot.
I am not sure how they will last
I am not sure how they will last
the crouching season. What shape they might don
when the wind is convinced to settle.
when the wind is convinced to settle.
Already, the days break roughly over frost,
a late wind disheveling the bushes
I pruned last month—
I pruned last month—
and my dark leans toward the night.
Soon, like the slow mouth of winter,
Soon, like the slow mouth of winter,
I will begin to eat.
Read on . . .
“Peach Philosophy,” a poem by J. Scott Brownlee
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