Outside, a gull cries
And I smell the sea, see the waves and hear them crash.
The instant passes.
My new home is landlocked
and dwarfed by the bank building.
The gulls swirl and swoop
to perch on the moneyed edifice,
its rows of grinning teeth blank and yellow in the early sun.
The sea remains near enough to visit,
but miles away.
I cannot see it, smell it, feel it
until the gulls cry,
and then the salty breeze ruffles the sand
and revives me.
Nubby red raspberries and silk-skinned cherries tingle the tongue;
the golden apple’s emphatic roundness shapes the hand.
Flavors, colors, textures slice through
the daily oatmeal torpor
temperate and formless, bland and beige,
as if from a big pot,
the exact same for all.
Stir in butter, sugar, wishes, prayers–it’s still oatmeal.
Dare to eat a peach:
Savor the shielding, yielding skin;
revel in the oozing juice, teeth sinking
into the velvety flesh.
Devour it all, down to the heart.
The heart’s a stone,
a tough, rough case
sheltering a treeful of fruit.
To get the fruit,
eat the peach.