Jester-necked pile of ideas

fattening by the cutting board.

I have known the summer wall,

it says slowly. The hillside faces

south into the valley.

Dew on the tomato plants.

Anything that grows, swarms,

bunches itself against a stay

and cannot stay. The vine

swells forward and back,

historical in its gestures,

moon-radiant and radical.

Along the brick wall, the apples are

espaliered like penitents,

rhododendrons burned dry.

Tomatoes are socialist ash

loaned by distant fires

like the change that settles

on its curves. This tomato

follows its own thoughts

into the frost. Leaves fade first,

like faces of preschool friends.

The redness of the tomato

reads your lips; it is a lip reader

and what it reports back

condemns and compels.

My rind holds the saddle,

desert heat and sugared seeds

the cool nights you thought

of home and that voicelessness

wears round too

that was present in its vining

the slow way you found

nothing to hold, or did and

pulled farther into the findings.

Look at me talking to tomatoes.

But people aren’t listening at this hour

and I’ll converse with anyone.