Peach

You’ve an old stone
to discard,
from the tilting bridge,
within uncertain distance of
an English windmill.

A stone that rolled around a tinted bowl,
imitative of Art Nouveau,
with yellow and sun-blown glass,

and a planet,
foolishly in orbit,
occupying
a clockface with work

with the tick of a carriage’s two o’clock horses,
arriving down a cobbled path,
to rest
outside a lodging house
of pebbles and pulp.

You’ve a heart to regain
for your still life,
a dimming shade of pencil line,
that rasps for spirit, however it is made known,
or an industrial clause,
finite as a life;
punctuation not given to blinking.

The fruit still tells of
time in storage,
unable to wrinkle plastic peach skin
when the news that morning
ticks officiously along
the bottom of the Sanyo flat-screen.

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