Silk of a Thistle

There's no getting closer
to it than breathing in its
fragmented scents.

Food.

It's the weight of nostalgia.
It's the tangles, and voices,
scars, and echoes of a feast.

Life is thistle and silk, and
those grapes spread out like
a galaxy, whilst the hungry

fast out of necessity.

Lobster on a plate. A cracked
exoskeleton, and we slobber
over spills of ripe damsons

and freckled pears, and toast
to eternity as fruit withers,
and the ice returns to water.

Life is just silk of a thistle.