Silence knows no history, only the rotting peach in a basket on the table.
Fruit flies vulture the pulp urgently. They'll be dead
soon, or elsewhere.
Wasting away, the peach wastes nothing ripening new bruises
with an earthquake style,
warm harmonies crowded by cooler tones,
and the white wall and window background
volunteers a little and a lot,
an occasional pall when the roofers sweep down
moth-mauled linen curtains
through a few seconds of tough wind—
loud, grainy chatter with a light sting—trivial only afterwards.
Outside, seagrapes knuckle and peel. All day,
I listen—thuds trundling above, branches
blistering, the sun-slicked street,
the early moon seasick but amicable, in need of sleep and a shave—
as the peach calibrates its calm collapse.
All day, I wait.
Time doesn't always elaborate its terms.
I am almost Schrödinger's cat,
but the fruit flies are part of the process. On the table's scratched black
finish, the basket's shadows weave folded hands.
Dead matter is living spirit,
Kandinsky concluded. What if it's that simple?