Quince season

our kitchen turns rosaries of light

in ginger and lemon

outside      the fib of things fading down

our evergreen seasons      hot torn sage

and tarragon      a basilica of basil

the neighbour one over

has hitched his jet ski to his ride-on

mower      tests the weather of both

sweet earth under nails

smells not like first love

     but what comes later

syngonium in jars string a new arrow

every two days

back in the kitchen      I peel and you core

their rough middles          and I mix up

cartouche with the hieroglyph

     ritualising greaseproof

we go upstairs in the afternoon steam

while the quince      unsupervised

     poaches pink and tender

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