Figs and rosin
Figs
(for AJK.)
All these baby figs
still waiting, like the perfect
green of the painted clay
pot we bought
two of, size of your palm
and also its striations,
can't be too sweet
yet, bungeed by the living
cords whose chewy armor
—well, if you were
to chew it—you'd find
playful in its opposition
to how meat feels. Sorry.
Living is a word I use
when secretly my heart doubts
sentience: I wouldn't
write living dog but maybe
living god is apt
for two as young,
this time around, as we are.
To even brush
up against the oh so strange
shapes of those leaves,
perfection, god mouthful.
--
Rosin
(for RAS.)
So convinced am I
of touch's mark on space
that out I reach
my hand anticipating
it returned to me, changed
in everything that matters.
Everything invisible
has no recourse to ordinary
meaning, so instead
the knower and the known
conspire, hushed and juvenile,
to compose an artifact
between the plates
of the seen,
between the bows and violinic
bodies of crickets,
dewdrops barely hanging
on the octave.
Knowledge, poor in secrets
such as these but rich in destiny,
in this analogy is rosin.
Do crickets use rosin?
I only know, closing my eyes
and hearing them tune, exactly this.