Fruit
Nate Maxson
Within a breath, the light came back to me but for that one
breath: it was gone
Nightshade: the tomato garden, deep green glasshouse smell
approaching the end of a
hobbyist’s harvest season
I can bite into the fever-fruit when it’s ripe, no earlier and no
later: I know this, the seeds will
slide warmly down my chin
Something spreads its wings overhead
Who knows how the flies got inside