FALSE FRUIT
I keep my eye on the love life
of these solemn winter crowns
and when light becomes various,
return to the garden to root and mulch
their tubers, like blousy beasts
of kale and reed. Raking and turning
the sulky pits, I nose them out like truffles,
with their albino breath and stage fright
bending over to force the pace,
cover their face with a mottled drape
or cosy strip of carpet or cardboard.
For this medicinal false fruit, I’m all
out of breath, as the puck’s shoot
muscles into a chill that sharpens
and liquorish stems, purplish swelled
reach out to be harvested
by my host of migrant shepherds
in a pre-dawn candlelight.