Before nudging the door which
has shifted near,
I eat half of a peach
and leave the other half here,

in this stork-shaped case
with a clasping beak,
to wait under the cedar wings
till I am back.

I come and eat this half
be it still purple-cored
and rimmed with the wilted
trace of the knife,

or a blob of pasty beige,
purple all gone,
a plaited cushion
for a sharp-nosed stone.

I eat it all the same,
grow thick and forget
whether I come this time
from a weightless land,

a silent cascade
of cyanic springs
cut by the blade of light
into jingling links,

or from a hefty mesh
of limbs rolled into
a boundless meadow
smelling of death and mint.