The Dessert

The autumn bled in shades of bruised and bold,

Where orchard shadows swallowed up the sun.

An iron pan, predestined and grown cold,

Received the quiet work that time had done.

The apples peeled away their ivory skin,

Like thoughts too pale for waking or for sleep,

While blackberries poured their heavy starlight in,

A weeping violet, bottomless and deep.

I stitched a lattice from the waking mind,

Over the craters where the fruit grew dense,

To trap the ghosts that autumn leaves behind

And bind the sweet decay with silver fence.

Within the oven's glowing, cavern throat,

The orchard dissolved, its memory rearranged.

A scent arose—a strange, discordant note—

Where seasons died and substance softly changed.

Now sliced upon a porcelain moon of white,

It waits to show what secrets fruit can keep:

A bleeding dark enclosed in golden light,

The taste of dreams we swallow in our sleep.