Friday, June 10, 2011

The Loquat Walks

When the loquat perfumed the air
In the balmy, still nights
Where we slipped out
Holding hands in the dark

Drugs we had done
Dreams we had
Denizens we had known

Greedily picking tropical fruit
as bats that can never have their fill
devouring each one  so slowly
their preciousness never valued, until now

hopes that we shared
hurts that we hid
humans that we loved

fading lights of passing cars
thin threadbare clothing
arcs of orange spots that framed the statement:
“I having fun.”

Life as it gave us nothing
Luxuries that were irrelevant
Loquats, acquired like golden trophies

Two at a time, pocketing their perfectly slippery stones
Knowing I would never plant them
Because Wild-type fruit is so much sweeter
When stolen, with someone you love.

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