speaking with Dante by the apples in produce
A. Ray Bright
he's not recognisable as a dead famous writer
the steam coming off his feet gives him away though
and the celestial blue about his eyes
dark circles never looked like a summer sky before
somehow due to work and imagination
we both speak the same language
although we're from different places and times
and people think differently now
we adjust the way trees do to seasons
this is an age and a season of confusion
Dante also had an eon of writhing morass back there
common ground and both admiring the apples
they're green and some are red streaked with orange
although they are barely like the globes he knew
far more ideas than we know what to do with
we share a laugh about heaven and hell
since we're between worlds for a short while
and he rises gently towards the fluorescent lights
while I sashay around to the wine racks' startle
past them down to fresh mussles in their own rain
and it seems there's a bubble about me unpoppable
how did he understand what this supermarket is?
immediately perhaps it appeared a jungle full
alien flowers and fruit and new colours arranged
the drenched intensity and plethora could be hell
putting on my sunglasses I'm out through auto doors
a few words he's never heard of and this ozone stretched sun
a. ray bright ©2003
