The past drifts ’round. And it’s like, the peels of bananas that’re encrusted with gems. The bruised and yellow skin of a once-pungent fruit lying decked in diamonds with the strings coming out, from the underside peeking of the splayed Boat Divine–a belly of soft white, yellow, tear-stained skin, a vulnerable Eye/I of a flip-sided coin melting in(side) in the sweet decay of a natural kind though these things take time. Compost, intertwines with the glittering rays of a near-autumn sun, A breeze from the doorway and an ant carries one: string from the belly of a once-pungent fruit. At last.
Old Growth 