Plums

The swell of purple flesh

is only the beginning.

There’s the way

they circle this bowl without

quite landing,

tilting each on its own axis,

each with a spot of light,

a small sun,

on its taut surface.

For a time

we ripen to our own

pursuits of sweetness,

until tooth and tongue

entangle us.

Are they gone then,

or do they swell

in my body’s orbit,

recurring comets

lighting cheek, eye, idea?