FRUITBODY

The House has vanished like 
a carriage without a horse, without a ground, 
without an herb or seeds or a prophet to write about it, 

or a mausoleum to sing through walls of textile the song 
of the bodiless fruit-trees that we once were 
like minnows, as windows, like what the wind swims through 

(a window, like a still-life of frozen wind, like this, not like this)
& a door reaches out and opens me for once 
& what it finds within my crystallized interstitial is an 

unending palette of windows full of starlight skies 
& every shade of possible Daylight. The windows 
look back at us waiting for the sweet breezes within us to wisp 

out of us & press against them in a bliss beyond the knowing—
& what calls out to us is a reaper of grim, grinning, a dim light 
in a distance, summoning one near to it

& it is as if another part of me had ruptured 
like the smoky spores at the center of a puffball's fruitbody 
that erupt into plumes at impact  

as I took a sophisticated Mephistopheles & entrapped him 
in a bubble. The rustic fence ruptured open & Death's Sting 
stung itself.