By Chinese post, I did receive,
a paper pouch with seven seeds,
metallic skin, mirror black
grown to sow, no turnings back.
I dropped one down, into a hole,
it fell and fell, towards midnight’s glow,
and when it stopped, it split in two,
and now it shines for me and you.
Tiny roots and tiny vines
curl and writhe inside my mind,
reaching out to darkness’ sun
growing deep, what’s done and done.
Seven seeds in mother earth,
metallic skin, for what it’s worth,
they pulse and throb within their cave,
and in the dark their tendrils wave.
I put them down, I pick them up,
sometimes they live inside a cup.
They draw my dreams into their veins,
and soak them up to dream again.
Berries black bloom on their stems
they ripen there in breathy wind,
they pulse and grow inside my brain
and dribble juice in spreading stain.
A fruit so big it caught the eye
of every serpent flying by.
A greedy suck, a sip or two,
who knows what grows for me and you.