Molar’s pressure pushing
pericarp, mesocarp, seeds
until the point of eruption in the oral mucosa,
releasing mellow grades of flavour.
To eat cherry-tomatoes
in a soundproof room.
Fill the mouth with the Aztec fruit,
working the teeth with patience
until the explosion that initiated the universe.
That winter in the Walden forest.
When the country had a new idol and we celebrated on Sundays.
The eccentric smell of the passion fruit harvest.
My delusion after La Tomatina.
The number of my Trans-Siberian Railway ticket.
The soot on the child’s body bathing in the Ganges.
A black woman in the presidency.
When all birds were released.
The constitution of the National Republic of Palestine being celebrated.
The last H bomb being dismantled at the Gate of Heavenly Peace.
Atlantis being preserved with the last map being destroyed.
Seven billion trees being planted.
Potosí’s ghosts coming back from work.
The man holds the needle, his foot rests
over the pedal, straightens his spinal cord.
The layout begins. He replicates the bend
made by the bluebird that left the sun and
got lost at sea. He moves in the chair,
cleans the glass lenses, draws the barely
noticeable spirals of coffee and cigarette
smoke at the dawn of day.
Darns the day stitching destiny. Outside
rotten oranges burst in the branches.