Star Fruit
The night is still
now, quiet, dripping,
damp lamplights long
ago gone bright -
bloomed, flickered
open like the evening's
morning glory, throwing
flashes of pale pink;
an angle's trumpet,
brugmansia's orange
opening gave way, now
white, heavy and held
high, spilling over into
the darkness. The black
tarmac is slick, saturated
shining branches sway slightly
overhead; twigs droop,
drops hanging clear and
pendant at their ends
as if budding, as if
the light has coalesced.
At the tips of branches
the star fruits swell, ripen,
and, falling from their facets,
briefly streak the sky. |