Seven are the tarts of which I've eaten
heaven though the hearts are still in Eden
from fruits of red that ripen in the autumn
drip juices bled that liken nothing rotten.
from roots are bred what titans planted often.
so spools the thread so tightly on the bobbin.
and pools the breath of life within the robin.
The earth wears wicked colors in the evening
for birth and life are brothers always leaving
while death and pain reliable and sweating
work breath and vein so viable and cresting
the breadth of chain deniable but telling
between them twain is pliable but stretching
like sweet champagne desirable but ending.
A fire is lit beneath the squatting branches
a liar has hit a thief for betting matches
and features against the sky become diminished
as creatures who've eaten pie succumb extinguished
and bleachers never white and etched in yiddish
by tweezers in the night fetched by the British
like preachers with stage fright say it is finished.
Samantha Jayne Frost
Copyright 2010
All Rights Reserved
