Thieves in the Orchard

Consider this language,

this dark romance, passionate

convolutions of the seed

within the fruit, burgeoning,

blossoming out of the hot,

sugar-shocked mouths of poets

who roll decadent tongues over

the afterglow tartness of

titanic truths.


Skin these words to the naked core,

tear them to the real, red flesh,

peel them like moon-fruit,

like wind-chime wanton

citrus lovelies, juice-full

and puckery.


e.yon/2002 (from Fruit & Bones and The Artsquarter)