On A Day Of Still Heat - Poem by James Charlton
In the still heat
a breadfruit ripens:
a multitude of tiny sunspots
mounted on hexagonal platelets,
green leather skin
and flesh of kneadable custard.
In the breadfruit
is hidden the sun,
in the sun
Before the heat reaches Earth,
the flames have already died;
before being picked,
the breadfruit is already rotten.
And all the unpurchaseable luxuries
- beetles, thunder, pebbles, twigs -
whose lives say, simply,
are hidden in each other
and hide all things.
Comments about On A Day Of Still Heat by James Charlton
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye