The Dessert

A clockwork orchard ticks inside the floor,

Where gravity forgets the heavy fruit,

And shadows bleed through wallpaper and door,

To wind their roots about a silver flute.

The porcelain sky hangs heavy, glazed and white,

Like oceans poured upon a tilting plate,

Where spoons of silver scoop the melting light

And stir the embers of a dream’s estate.

Upon the table, frosted at the edge,

A quiet planet spins its crusty ring;

A tart geometry, a jagged wedge

Of autumn time suspended in the spring.

The sour cream gathers like a creeping mist

Above the amber flesh of cider-suns,

Where memories dissolve and are dismissed,

And through the cracks, the heavy nectar runs.

It is a thought of cider and of dust,

Baked in the kiln of some forgotten year;

The mind collapses in the flaky crust,

And tastes the paradox of sweet and sear.

We slice the circle, but the knife goes deep—

Not down to earth, but inward to the bone,

Where ghosts of orchards murmur in their sleep,

And eat the hollow stillness all alone.