the sky is the colour of the ripe plum bruises on your arm 

baby fat pinched too hard by yellowing talons, nicotine digits 

somewhere something wonderful is happening, but not here 

somewhere something wonderful is happening, in reds and blues- 

velvet seams of jade and onyx explode outwards at a million miles a second 

in jerusalem someone is tasting apricots for the first time.  

ripe from the tree, their tongue exploring the furred flesh 

before canines and incisors smash together and the membrane is broken,  

sending sweet, pristine juices flowing like raging seas 

to the back of the mouth, a cool arc of perfection hitting the back of the throat, 

a throat not red raw with rage, a throat that can swallow without tears, 

a pure, white gullet, not sullied by yellowing talons, nicotine stained digits  

clamped vice-like around a scream.