He went into the names and found the forms.
He cut the long field low and let the light
grid the grass. He brought two globes
to compare. The uncommon color of the second
won out. He would have peeled it, eaten it
section by section, but he insisted he conserve
the circle, because it is perfect. Skin and bitter flesh
were not to part. The seeds were safe.
He studied the perfusion. Then, in a tone
like paper, said, “We could never have
crafted this. Artery, capillary,
fiber, and pulp. The rind like a halo.”
He made him slice it to admire the shape. Yet when he held
the sliver up to the sun, it blazed and burned their voice.