Slanting light casts onto a stucco wall

the shadows of upwardly zigzagging plum branches.



I can see the thinning of branches to the very twig.

I have to sift what you say, what she thinks,



what he believes is genetic strength, what

they agree is inevitable. I have to sift this



quirky and lashing stillness of form to see myself,

even as I see laid out on a table for Death



an assortment of pomegranates and gourds.

And what if Death eats a few pomegranate seeds?



Does it insure a few years of pungent spring?

I see one gourd, yellow from midsection to top



and zucchini-green lower down, but

already the big orange gourd is gnawed black.



I have no idea why the one survives the killing nights.

I have to sift what you said, what I felt,



what you hoped, what I knew. I have to sift 

death as the stark light sifts the branches of the plum.