The number ten is a handbag, a doctor’s black stachel.
Ten fruits growing on a limb, purplish-brown,
the shade of deep bruises, hung like an egg carton
(long rows, two by two), balanced by their pale wicks
like teats on the belly of a speckled cat.
Not like apples, which give to the stretching hand,
which make their way to the basket.
The doctor’s bag, the leather, the clasp,
it rises in solemn time, engulfs the pendulous
purpling fruits, closes over the limb with a quiet click;
takes the egg-fruits in their ripe formation,
takes the bruised wicks, takes the shining bald air,
takes the quiet of a finished growth, and opens again
to claim nothing inside, black and solid,
the bottom facing up to a cocked eye.
