Alright, so here's a second version, same poem after comments and critiques have been taken into account. Is the change stronger?
Star Fruit
The night is still,
now, quiet, now
dripping, damp lamplights
long ago gone bright -
bloomed, flickered
open like an evening
angel's trumpet,
a midnight morning glory -
now white, heavy and
held high, spilling into
the darkness, blanketing.
The black tarmac underfoot
is slick, saturated, now
branches sway overhead;
twigs droop, drops,
hanging clear, shine
pendant at their ends
as if budding, as if
the light has coalesced.
At the tips of branches
the star fruit swell, ripen,
and, falling from their facets,
briefly streak the sky.
|