Slanting¹ light casts onto a stucco wall

    the shadows of upwardly zigzagging² plum branches.

    I can see the thinning of branches to the very twig³.

    I have to sift⁴ what you say， what she thinks，

    what he believes is genetic⁵ strength， what

    they agree is inevitable⁶. I have to sift this

    quirky and lashing⁷ stillness of form to see myself，

    even as I see laid out on a table for Death

    an assortment⁸ of pomegranates and gourds¹⁰.

    And what if Death eats a few pomegranate seeds？

    Does it insure a few years of pungent¹¹ spring？

    I see one gourd⁹， yellow from midsection to top

    and zucchini-green lower down， but

    already the big orange gourd is gnawed¹² black.

    I have no idea why the one survives the killing¹³ nights.

    I have to sift what you said， what I felt，

    what you hoped， what I knew. I have to sift

    death as the stark¹⁴ light sifts¹⁵ the branches of the plum.