by Spencer Wilkins '21
and garlic bulbil
in hand I press
thick scent from
hermaphrodite flowers
to yellow paste
*
inked on The Science Times
Humans Can’t Read While Dreaming
suppose winter cranberry
festoons shrivel
to brown,
suppose it is continued dreaming
when spittle wets the eiderdown;
*
a steel blistered jug
collects resin which finches dip
on Rorschach beaks and wash in vernal pools,
Ionna finds
a spice merchant with a horse and a moon
face
*
you think death
a vacation in
sulfur onsens
where, probably, I could say,
a short oiran— who learned
this week
how not
to stifle
the sounds
of tears—
wades eye deep
*
and I needle— death
is a superpod, plantations
of sweet ripening banana,
the count of flat
ironed bills
before you
*
and somewhere we
or you cradle the husks
we were
and are but I
am sunset,
like bulbs of asian pear
and you like brown sugar knobs
and dried bog cranberries