I bestrode a sock long dried out on the sidewalk,
beside a fireball nip and ravaged grapefruit
which had sufficed, for someone last weekend
to tell the world: I’ve had enough of exquisite
pleasures. Yet he had only eaten the outermost
bitter portion; he had not peeled it or gnashed
through to the core–that wholly divine fruit inside
painted vivid pink the next day in bright light as I
roamed vaguely in the direction of East Rock,
thinking all the while of the stars’ juxtapositions,
the tunnels of stars falling through Epicureans
laying timeless outlines of themselves in the dark.

David Capps