I have a terrible fear

where cashew trees crush dreams.

They clump Idea and Promise once guaranteed in--

in fists of fallen leaves and flowers buding

through cracked beds of clay under maimed glass towers--

around looking-lens where the conch whispers

about swimming memories between the rushed turnstile.

It rounds like patrons of museums on hikes to the tomorrow

that canoodles with turtles in bluelight

not helped by wind-tossed mirrors who walk

among tales fraught with eggshells and carcass

of web-fraught dwellers--and they

must scroll the megabyte without mind.

It knows the hand that feeds

the blood/the nook/the past-locked/the how

upon streams of circled weeds.

It flies on routes of uncertain bumbling.

Pollinated secrets of frost and snow

boil over the turm-fried dinner

and sizzle atop the heat.

It returns all at once,

the downstream spill

finds its way through abandoned pores.

It consumes journeys of wild insects, so

know your mind and know Her well.

I have a terrible fear; we share Sunday dinners.