Seven

With a care just the other side of reverence she slit it open & peeled the rind from the fruit with her fingers. Not a single one of the multitudes of black satin seeds, coal dark wet pearls, containing many old minutes & a great deal of residual salt & music, slipped through

her hands.

The taste was of monarchs. He watched her squatting, rocking back & forth on her heels

as she ate very slowly. The moon rose, not over a fire he had rubbed from wood, but over her naked shoulders. The inky waters beyond were on fire with twisting fish,

as if the moon swam

in the waters. 

What is it to suck the flesh of the sun? He watched her extremely closely, but not rudely, while continuing to smile, more & more deeply, inside. They long ago had lost their hats. Papaya was dripping down her arms, turning her

into a tree.

Nine

There was a phone call & a hang up but a message floated around her head

as

if

she'd grown a cape of long filly hair while the traffic light changed.

It seems there is a little lacquered spring in the air—

it said (the light).

This set her to wondering about tools of purpose:

what is a turquoise velvet dress anyhow, if not

a sort of sliver or slide show representing apex, what floats over—

an ocean on a woman's body & what about

the coffee rituals of early risers, after many thoughtful nights, or

the flicker of a green arrow in her eyes (repeat & spin)

a very good time  

(poof).