Classic Poem

On the edge of the floodplains at dusk
beneath recursively barbed leaves
shards of vermilion enamel
dropp onto burnt black earth.

Now delicately dismembered
the knobby sphere
displays like jewels
on a jeweller’s cloth
smooth inner membranes of vivid glass.

Stored in a basket
beside my bed
glossy cinnabar fruits
exude a dangerous perfume.
The floury smell of semen
penetrates my room.