Beaux Neal

Where are the Fruits

I am finally becoming
The still life
That serves a purpose.
Every day that I do not cut
The vine before
It gestates fully
Is a triumph.
I cry for no one
In my dreams.
The concept of reaping
Fruit from labor
Is presumptuous.
A lover once told me
There is power in anonymity.
He left me, but held me first
While I shook with exhaustion.
He said I was a mirror.
Of course I was.
Does marzipan reflect
The nature of a lemon?
In the garden so many
Good strawberries
Fallen.
The survivors are arranged
In boxes and shipped off.
What do you eat
If all you eat
Is our best and brightest
Circumstantially
Of course.

dough

we could’ve had a picnic
too many backflips
love? too abundant
weighty, costly,
precious
stone cold drunk as a fox
eyes like bar darts
all the live long time
what is the boiling temperature
of the whipped
chocolate chips like a circle of slugs
in the dough that never decomposes
they sectioned off the organics
chemistry too complicated
small boys can only mimic
their mother’s voices
the heart is a muscle, naturally
it accrues fat
the head too is thick
the cherries are around and i’ve never tied
my tongue so hard
trying to prove
it needs lotion this
basket so raw so opaque
with purpose
we could’ve unpacked it
we blinked and it rotted