swash papaya (redux)

a swash papaya rolls gently onto my toes—
desolate place this—
oil sheens in eddies on sand once white
just what is that color now?
the swash papaya inedible
soft and blackened on its equator—
equality evanesces much like a savage republic
replaces what it once paid lip service
this swash papaya will never touch my lips
as otiose as an indian summer
when everyday is hotter than the next
this island is thee heatdome
swash papaya rots—
oiled and poisoned—
i eat air
no sustenance here

What I’m Reading:

Death alone
takes what is left
without protest, criticism
or a demand for more
than one can give
who can give
no more than was given:
doesn’t even ask,
but accepts it as it is,
without examination,
valuation,
or comparison.

— Alfred Kreymborg / “Dirge”