Magnifera

Ripeness was a semitone below the bone clef of the elbow keying the rain-slicked cyclone fence: the firm, saclike rind of a warped minim, golden drupe note for which we longed. Stone fruit are fine tutors. This one unseals a sensual nose hit. At dusk they go lambent like chunks of bent gloam. Sucked, their fibrous pith is birth-pouf — punk oblong pits belonging in a goblin’s pot, infused with rich static and the fresh electric scratchiti of summer lightning. It’s fortune gave us this softer unit, surely. Edgewise the frangipani made a rain-gap fin for heads rife with fire in the shade of the mango belt.