In a gasp of mist

which seems to contain the sky,

vapour is induced onto fruit

outside organic chains.

The shifting of spring cloud

gives the impression of hours

passing over the ground

in patches, stripes. The striped

awnings, appetisingly

clownish, curve like tongues

away from the city brick,

a brick which echoes

a voice from somewhere,

resolving itself, after

a pulse, into the word

aubergines. So

you look at the aubergines,

tight dark balloons,

a confusion of orca-heads

breaching, wet with vapour 

pulled from the sky, and look

at you, reflected as many

vague shadows in all

of the berries’ domed foregrounds,

looming convexly, adding 

several absences

shaped like persons

to the rubbery scene,

as if the solanine

and night-shaded fruit

were keeping you gone

from their spongy interiors.

Behind you in the world,

and before you as

a blank, swooped frame

in each slicked and bright-black

surface, the sky.