Circle of Mealtime

Dappled on the flesh-soft,

fragrant ground lie

all the rancid rotting peaches

of the summer’s frivolous refusal,

their ripe-splitting skin

wasted on bristling fruit-flies,

twitching like black magnets

as they gorge on the wounded.

Spavined fingers

Hold aloft that silver net,

And in their frigid-soft distance,

Hungry: a spider

Plump and poised.