Ripe dreamfruit are in season, finally.

All colors, no-colors, those impossible colors,
Night sky sunset fruit, blood fruit,
Drupes falling, machetes severing,
Harvested with Wartenberg neurowheels,
hand pollinated by monofilament, 
sticky syrupy and astringent,
Full of nacreous arils and poisonous,
never spit out the seeds!
Cover your mouth,
Swallow them as if they are Persephone,
and your mouth a greedy rose and aged ivory cave.

When they ripen, as they must,
they are a toxicologist’s wet-dream,
And burst forth from your skull,
fully-formed and foliate,
savor the sweetness,
in your last breath.

The empty flesh, 
shoveled into the barrows
soul sundered away,
always fertilizes