Carpe Diem
Carpe Diem, acrylic on canvas
So that each
is its own, now–each has fallen, blond stillness. Closer, above them,
the damselflies pass as they would over water, if the fruit were water,
or as bees would, if they weren’t somewhere else, had the fruit found
already a point more steep in rot, as soon it must, if
none shall lift it from the grass whose damp only
softens further those parts where flesh goes soft.
Aubade: Some Peaches, After Storm, Carl Philips


