The Dessert

The orchard bled through heavy glass,

Where pears of wax and bismuth bleed,

And clockwork wings of beetles pass

Across a tart of frozen seed.

A lattice crust of iron bone

Unfolds above a sea of stone,

Where cherries float like ruby eyes

Beneath the crust of painted skies.

A blend of large slice pears

Giving every cherry different stares

The juice runs thick with liquid time,

A syrup stirred from ancient rust,

As phantom bells begin to chime

Through floating clouds of powdered dust.

We cut the moon into a slice—

Half-tangerine, half-glacier ice—

And taste the years that softly die

Within the chambers of the pie.