The World is Your Lobster

Yes. Feast your eyes. I am the centrepiece, after all. Summer’s expanding belly come to laze, somnolent. The sun, a kind benevolence on this good life. Eat your fill and be done. I siesta, waiting for you, of all the ways you’ll bite. Fully-fleshed. My skin pinks in the sun. Or maybe I’m just blushing with ooh, thoughts.

The fruit falls when the branch that sprung it can no longer hold its ripe-round heft. Thud. Come, take of me. Nothing sweeter. Gorge. It’s destiny.

The time so close to harvest. Such wealth peaking, you forget how close it is to waning, when time thins and shadows blue, the light becomes the other side of orange. When warmth shivers. A time to curl up, nestle.

But first, the outing. Laying it all out, this fine, fine spread. Unmissable. For Bacchus, for Osiris, for Demeter. The grape is an equation of elements and asks for alchemy. It wants crushing, to brouhaha. And then to languish. To be drunk with power. Come, take of the generous grape. The gods are at the table and wish to make a toast.