The lizard fruit, its citric tongue
flicking out from the bumpy skin when broken.
I can’t imagine well the place
where they are grown, the endless orbs of green
hung in mid-air, the laden tree,
the scraping of dry leaves against the rind,
but still there is this sense they’ve come
back somehow from a far and sandy shore
where our dead have gathered to laugh
at us and lightly fling these tokens back.
by Gary Simmons