I carried a hooked blade in my pocket and climbed a tree
the fruit let go easily and there was plenty of it
the rain came on schedule and was welcome
the sea was like itself and no other thing
and the sun was the same, the sun
I left behind and cannot go back for.

What would I carry it in, and to whom,
when the shape of a day settles
into the faults of its container.

I only know what floats to the surface
the small square of sky arranged
by the mesh of the tent
the starred feet of geckos
the eight pinpricks of a spider
small lives casting large shadows
on the dim green sea of sleep.

I only know that the fruit is divided,
and divided, and divided again.