Not Bruise, Not Eggplant
by Jad Josey
I wandered into the garden to
find what there was to reap and —
like a bird waking from a dream
of silver-edged clouds pocking sea-blue skies
to find its feathers vanished —
I found only dark earth, earth dark with dew.
Later you are making tea,
water rumbling over flame,
and the gloaming is too loud, too quiet,
you cannot be sure. The horizon is a purple
you’ve never seen before — not a bruise,
not a goddamn eggplant. Pull me into you.
There is hardly any time left in this world.
Photo credit: Penguinuhh