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the Pathos of a Plum.
the dusty skins are the same
as the dusky skies
and the splintered deck
and the quart of purple fruit that is sitting in my lap.
their flesh is warm
a branch of bone is their new tree
in a high and blustering wind, my hand
is the wood of misery
I clutch at one and it stares at me
a bruise blue pondering eye
a great heavy eye that does not cry,
but sheds great drops of weeping sweetness.
and I the stoic
broken and damned
stoop to the purple indigo
and eat sorrow from my hand.
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