Gathering figs in the rain

In the rain, globe after globe
of shimmering purple; high up,
tenanted in broad scalloped robes—

No rungs for the feet, no stirrups;
thus always the one the heart really wants
is just out of reach. Jewel on a dark stub,

ticket to certain sweetness: no other response
seems fitting except to peel you off the branch,
fingertips glossed with drops of sap. Chance

turned into choice: green that held out until blanched
in high summer heat, then cooled as clouds rolled in,
pregnant, unable to stay in their own skin. Stanch

the wound that bleeds by pressing down and touching—
Teardrop shape, honeyed light bulb. What you chose and what
dropped into your hand. Stand still. The rain is thinning.

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