Concepts protrude,
beyond the fruit bowl,
into logical hands,
and are tossed into
a black sac.
Musing in a crystal cradle,
those citrus colours
bounce inklings back and forth,
like an infusion of
blasphemy with holy air.
Shapes imitate lunar phases
full; waxing crescents,
although none are ever new.
See, the rational hands
would sweep the bowl
and contents into a sac,
to wane as ebony.
For that’s where
a fruit bowl and
new moons
belong. |
Submission Name: New Moon in Fruit Bowl
