Enclosed in oak
supple curves
of pomegranate, peaches
steeped in slowly
fermenting juice
seeps into cracks
of word-soaked wood
Rotted organic flesh
tendrils spread
like inky veins
on aged paper
pages stained
with bitter fading
citrus flavours
If I sipped
their liquor supped
the clotted ichor
that fills the full stop
at the end of sentences
I’ve long since forgotten
till tissues drained
and left a concave wasteland
of sterile lettered shells
Would my mind convulse,
and reject the taste?
— Too late
have I revisited
the forgotten fruits
of my labours
the next ones I pick
will be ones I savour.