This Will End With A Fruit

by by by David Scofield

illustration by by Robert Sandler

Petals are swarming in my mouth,

I’m savoring an angry swarm of spring

I breathed today to blow against your thigh.

There’s heat left for such games.

Soon warmth will be more vital

Than ritual or color.


The smell of squirming in a room with hard-wood

floors is not for me to tell, but I’ll confide

I doze well in the musk of glistening oak.

And same on gold, it’s nice to rest without a scent.


Soon I may leave my senses malting

Somewhere moist - beneath a rock.

But I’m holding out to hear you eat a grape. Those clarinets

Of spurting juice will marshal me. Oh my,

We haven’t shared a fruit down to the core,

And it’s getting cold. That’s fine, everything

Now is ripe all the time. Here I finish

With a sneezing orange peel in winter.