But Come Evening

We plucked them like late plums;
juicy, contused and shivering soft to the touch.

It seemed like such a waste to just
leave them

trembling on the cusp of rot;
plump little bags of sweetness

begging to be put beneath
the tongue, the teeth,

the grinding heel.
We pulped them like kumquats;

we quinced them, five at a time,
like mashy damsons;

we popped cherries
and left stones.

It was ecstasy to spoil them -
tearing flesh gets you wanton.

We smoked much. Sometimes
we made plans but the truth

was always sharper, sadder.
On rare afternoons

we took to wondering
after some great purpose

but come evening

it was back to unzipping
and the tart zing of smacked lips

and the skins that collected
in moist heaps.