Autumn Geometric
Must be another whitewashed wafer's
slithered through the slot of the celestial
jukebox: a drachma or piastre or shekel,
coin of the realm in some sere yet ever-
inhabited ancient land. Enter the theme,
borne on strings—bouzouki or oud,
dark fingers schooled in the eternal
minor key of rain, dust and olive tree.
Heat rises, worlds turn, leaves shudder
in wind, apples fall in the fullness of fall.
And in all this Earth's thousand lacerated,
lacerating tongues—in field, souk,
or shopping mall—skin of the fruit
yields to the teeth and flesh concedes
the juices that slide down your throat.
Copyright © Roy Jacobstein All rights reserved
The Gettysburg Review, and Poetry Daily, 2001
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