They walk into the room
carrying trays of fresh fruit
flown in last night from New
Zealand or Peru,
Panama or the Windward Isles.
Kiwis, mangoes, star-apples.
What about tarantulas among the bananas?
The living leave those alone—
they know how close the shadows are when night falls,
how far their yearning and its intricate
delivery systems spread.
The living set down the trays and arrange
the fruits on the table. Patterns of unmoored stars
rise from the platters. The living
read their futures there, of love
unsprung from the zodiac—that yearning
itself what they yearn for. Sipping champagne
and catching scraps of conversation from other rooms,
they move toward the double doors
and step out into the night breeze on the terrace.
Overhead, a sky reeling with constellations.
