On the edge of the floodplains at dusk
beneath recursively barbed leaves
shards of vermilion enamel
dropp onto burnt black earth.

Now delicately dismembered
the knobby sphere
displays like jewels
on a jeweller’s cloth
smooth inner membranes of vivid glass.

Stored in a basket
beside my bed
glossy cinnabar fruits
exude a dangerous perfume.
The floury smell of semen
penetrates my room.