Paler Scorch, of Memory

As if to peel the misty paleness
was to know the brutal scour,
and the curl of a thought dare whisper

Softer tread, the wood could splinter
at her blistered ache of tell
The painting fled into her stride

So the ruby told her lips to hear
the gentle memory of a childhood,
of a curtained moonless sky


Too Grand

This fruit is far too grand

Exactly placed to centre here a pedestal of somethings…

These apples, polished red with a uniform of grapes

This conspiracy of colour seems to shout an afternoon

A royal scent of feast, and now my eyes begin to question…

How this knife looks like an omen, and this spoon, a metaphor for gaze

Where, I wonder where, is the inevitable bruising?

Or the flesh that sags and folds, just a little past its prime…

And then I see a sense of clinging close beside a fallen free

A bowl of contradictions where time ticks in silence

Yes, this fruit is far too grand and my moment calls for less

Now instead I see a universe, ripe with human muddle