called
red but regularly polished black or dried blood
they bubble a languorous still life
freak storms could have drowned to oblivion
last summer
yet
tousled searching for the best ones they lob and huddle
bobbled they are plastic fluid to the
fingertips
gripping to stems and tugged loose with a
bend
dewy
mornings suffuse their surfaces
the faintest hint of young wine comes and
goes
that could have been their surfeit in a vat
instead
of such fate they burst readily in the mouth
turning their fair share of moisture to the
good
and sweetness textbook adjectives strive to
match
their
skins mingle in the multitudinous juice
drawing up sediment oddments and pips lips
spit out
into the fond recycle of air and earth
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