Figs and stuff

Figs, Turkey

Where sea is field and field is slow

the sky is gentle sufferance

a waste of beaten gold

and olive trees root their hold

host pure cicada chirring.

We twist ripe figs from spatulate leaves,

milky sap trails on our palms,

peel the green skin back in strips

and bite into the softened flesh

through fuschia cilia sunk in jam,

swallow the flower, its glut of seed

swallow the flowing field

where sea is gold and sky is slow

and fruit swells with our singing,

grows sweeter every evening.


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