Yesterday a branch from the neighbor’s plum tree gave way under the weight of its own pulp
and fell on your side of the fence. Now we have gallons of plums, perfect grooved ovals covered in milky bloom, a fine red line between the purple skin and amber flesh.
Each pit slips clean from the fruit, the shape of an eye. It leaves behind a hole: disputably, either lining or air.
The ground porous. The jam boiling. The sourdough full of bubbles. The rot rising in the pond. The intestine grumbles. The itch at the bottom of the stomach. The itch at the bottom of the heart.
You’re tempted sometimes to put free signs on things in people’s yards. Free birdbath. Free umbrella. Free tricycle.
A bee and hornet lock in a predatory embrace. The hornet drags the kill over the concrete. Stumbling. Lurching. Unwieldy with luck.
The neighborhood lush with fennel and mint, with rosemary and lavender. My housemates find a free couch and carry it ten blocks home. To get it inside, we must take the door off the hinges.