From the Fishouse

The three tomatoes
I picked for the windowsill
against an early frost, hunch
and sag in their own skins.

The sweet clot of seed and flesh
rots from within, and a mobile
of delicate insects begins. Fruit flies
seem to appear from nothing.

I watch one, frenzied
in the vapor of decay, measure
and remeasure neurotic circles
like the swung glow of a twig
stoked in a backyard grill.

A lit wand swirls neon
through night’s tabula rasa,
its orange trails lingering
just enough to remember

the cursive of a letter,
or the scrawled-out flare
of a name that resonates
long after the burning
fuselage has passed through.