smoother than the deer, its pressureless depth,

that emerges edged with green and ascends 

to a steam-shadow, lace on the tread of dawn. 

Smoother than the deer so drunk with calm;

smoother than its future cry like a blown dart streaking-true 

among the spread of trees—sharply throbbing—

and through the closed-up throat of the day.

The plum—a cultivation of desire—is not 

compelled to speak and only cedes

a cool transparent thud, 

there, in the softness of the rain.

So lies the plum, a listening tongue, 

tuned in on the worm—a catchy number 

for grabby chicks, their pink gastric mills—

on leaf litter’s countervailing billow;

on the mushroom who dawns from an ant-husk

and spores, a dozy breath like french-dressing left 

to split over winter on the shelf. 

Sky lanterns lit and dropped into the sun.

How does the plum really feel? Stalked. 

What does it believe? Its flesh, the circle, the stone. 

, at last in a fruit bowl, on any given sill 

listening for the weather, unable to hear a thing. 

Radio idents in a distant room 

do their work on human connection.

It’s silent outside. Black trees wind the air, 

dance-revert-root, snap like the mind

—giddy and small—like a radiant seed 

flying from a central stalk. 

So lies the plum as the boiler clicks on, 

its brightness buried as if startled, awed, 

by a threadbare voice swift and separate from this world.