Late Fruit
Something has been eating the ends of our days
again. It’s been a week of steady cold rain but
let the dark come on too soon if I may
savor another whole season the sight of you
eating one by one the best grape tomatoes
we have had all year. I watch you watching
nothing in particular beyond the dimming glass
of the kitchen window. Your unchecked hand
plucks them with the unhurry of future after-
thought from the well of our turned cherry bowl —
one so ripe its root must have sucked magma
then the shiny heart of a rabbit burst from hiding
followed by the molten dash of the sun
that falls to wink out in the ocean once more
a July coal from the fire we made together —
red emblems from a season out of time
parading into the mouth I love the most.
Michael Dechane’s poetry has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Image, Southern Poetry Review, Tar River Poetry, Bellingham Poetry Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Lake Effect, and elsewhere. A native of Odessa, Florida, he is now a full-time digital nomad. Read more poems and about his creative collaborations at michaeldechane.com