Produce Favors for Exhibit A

by J.E. Beville

 

It didn’t take long, suppose
For the fruit to become rotten
Sordid hole punched
Shaken sensitivity
Leaking quick and sure
Sweetness passing its brush
Which will will be mine?

A white horse’s grey mane
Brittle unbraided catching eye
And never hand
Having no remarks even unspoken
Leave your company else

Where there is continuity
Horse bites fast as thought runs

All be as this convolution
Fall beside and fidget to scale
Smelling poor to be unkept
If found the same as all
No matter pretext:
The new dies last
But still gives up the ghost

She did that, too, flashing
Wrapping each string conspicuously
With the mass forfeited
Fool is the least to be deemed
An incompatibility that shelters
Tight tongue, grit teeth
Move off faster than light

Neon address lamp on a
Richer home or a hairy shirtless back
At nine they thought too early
Nah, cream candy always draws
Sleepier mornings for a driver
Never caught, hung on any bigger
An idea outlasted by thin skin.