A cross-framed square of kitchen light
outlines the tomato bed.
A silhouette of my head boats the shallows
of one particular
frilled and spiky pumpkin leaf.
The dark behind the brief dark
that I can see
is very deep.
Footpads with no feet stop, then pass;
the leaves get up and walk.
The mangoes stalk with crabs’ eyes through their tree.
In a wet temper night skates about the grass
like a maniac in a black
rectangular overcoat.
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