The Dust Plum

The Dust Plum:
Loved more, Lives less

Purple this tree, burned like a wart -
a wrinkle-rind mahogany with tractor-dust
upon its leaves:
each tick’s belly neither russet–grey nor blue.
Purple this tree engorged with spring.

He watches – a black street between –
his sister undressed one Crow at a stroke.
Ten yokes of youth – imposed by the seed –
mellow from green to fallow, between.

She, the bigger, with mustard leaves,
drowns the hydrant, crowds the heat,
and greedily fucks the sun god raw –

She bakes her candies orange from plum.
Sores on the mouth’s socket-tongue
suck nerve-blood brown down salted teeth.
Could she fruit a fig, she'd shred her sleeves.

She knocks her Mother's Clay - with knitting pins like hands -
and sinks her knuckles to their knobs in ferric, unfit soil.
An ape-man leaves this weed to spoil.

There is a Tree in Heaven, called the flower of paradise –
she'll catch upon your clothes and cling till death.
Cross the blossom once...incensed till death.

Hair, stones, ashes, shit,
tannic mulch, rainful fits,
a squirrel stands upon the barbecue pit.

And it is good to be writing,
good to reflect.