The Somnabulist

When it happens, you're glad it's not you
but then you wake up hammered

in the lost orchard—woozy
from Bloodgood & Spitzenbergs

& quinces from Persia

As you veer unpiloted through space
you realize the plum is unattainable—

though each germ a jet of flame, your prize
has expired from saturnalia

Elliptic, the slugs on the pear leaves
broil in their own fat

& flickers drill asterisks into cherry

Yes, you say, lead me to the happy violence
by which I am imparadised

Copyright © 2009 L.S. Klatt All rights reserved
from Interloper
University of Massachusetts Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission