If it could be, it would be seven o'clock. Two men who have all day been picking peaches and pears go back through the rows for the fallen and pecked fruit left for dead. They take them for themselves, filling the wire baskets of their motorbikes. They light cigarettes and pedal their engines to a running start. Then an unexpected thing. It cannot even be said the sun resists setting -- in itself still something -- the sky behind it so recently darkening "brightens" but only by my recollection. I surprise myself with an angry thought @3I'm as far away as you make me, you shit@1 about my lover, whom I had until this moment the option of missing. When I understood my being half a globe away, I assumed I could get there in time. The earth is now like a fruit a human has knifed, tumbling fruitlessly through space. You notice when you finally stop running through your day, at table, the dizziness, the blown earth in the red wine. And the constant bruising as we fall up, like falling out of love where you are suddenly free, terribly guilty without caring. No longer is there a single self but a whole host of opposition, completely random pellets and debris, mistresses and masters of the universe, who will be there for you I promise, always. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE LITTLE VAGABOND, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE SONG: 4 by EDWARD ESTLIN CUMMINGS HUGH SELWYN MAUBERLEY: 6. YEUX GLAUQUES by EZRA POUND THERE WAS A BOY (VERSION 1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE YOUNG CARPENTER by AL-RUSAFI THE VEERY'S FLUTE by LUCY BRANCH ALLEN A PRIZE RIDDLE ON HERSELF WHEN 24 by ELIZABETH FRANCES AMHERST |