Saints talk down certain fruits, under

canopies in waves of nausea.

Their ridiculous commotion muffling

the repeated warnings of moonlight.

Fruits like the propped-up ripeness of

shattered skulls, feel nothing for the

earth.

Trees like dead stopped cranks of

musical seasons--take no rest of

themselves.

Branches stall between wind & shadow

to point out what hangs.

Enough to make worms arrest their

wriggle & die of their nature.

These fruits that come round, while

betraying invite.

Happy decay nestling its cheeks on pits.

Grass should never lie with these.

Hands should starve reach, mouths

should utter: close.