Fruit of the passion flower in a secret room.
It has been a long time since a theory of illusion
was accepted by blue herons flying over the city.
Fruit of the exchange sliced into pieces geometrically
entering the body, nourishing the migration of butterflies
to be studied, but not tracked down in time.
Fruit of the flower mistaken for angels
and troubled monks who lick their fingers
of the sticky substance, go on with their task
of converting magic into dogma, the juice
of the fruit gathering in clay jars to become
the ballad of the body they were warned about.
Fruit of the harvest given its seed, its ecstasy promising
nothing to those desiring more than the pickings from
a trembling branch with its holy hair of the invisible.
Fruit in lavender glass bowls armed with moisture
from the laps of windows, mistaken for the divinity
of prophetic apples, bitten into by ripe ghosts full
of oranges, lemons, and darkening bananas—
yearning passed beyond the evil waters found
in the crushed fruit, the disappointment of finding
the pulp is dangerous overcome by emptying it
into the open mouth, this communion
between the hummingbird and its one prayer.