Plums

A small box
at the back of my 
heart opens: 
plums fall
dusty purple
into my palms
so many I cannot
hold them
so pull them
to my breast
keep them
where your head
rested in the night
that moved
the architecture
of this city
along our walls
in the room
where we 
sleep 
in variations.


Published as part of Poetry in the Windows, in Highland Park, California: Bridal Shop window