Grimbeau

The fruit of my labour

so far today

Sits over in a

Modest plastic bag

Amidst other items,

It is well

out-of-the-way,

conveniently

located.

‘Shifting Metaphor’ the bag reads,

inscribed

in very gooseberry green above

The

Iconic bitten fruit (an apple?).

A wasp draft flicks it,

it tumbles giddily and

comes to rest

On a too full

smudged yellow

pedal bin,

I explode

My fruits are strewn

all

over the scintillating,

brick-red non-slip

Linoleum.

Howling now

I watch them perish,

wither and vanish,

delight

full tiny

Twinkles

Marasmus done

the voided quasars

dance quick,

nimble polkas to dash

the conic lampshade

So,

like Orgones

and

reason do –

We Sleep