somewhere in blair, and who even cares?

2/1/06

as you make your way from
an honest day’s toil, sweat upon your brow
like a flood in the now
you might suddenly find, in a moment of time
that you’re queued
for milk and honey like
the most ancient of wine
as your pantry bares home to dust

of the apples you’ll pick the ripest,
the grapes the fullest and plump,
of the collards you’ll choose
the greenest and firm
and the berries, the darkest and lush

but beneath the greatest things
are those dusty and cheap
kept away beneath the sheath

just the jilted fruits rotting in the dark
barely
discovered
and secretly bruised