Rain spoiled the fruit, they clot the nets – these oblivious, night-black plums – dropped off to bloom white mould, and shrink, and curdle like so much pelagic mass hauled up to dry in the drag-net off Nantucket or Here, between the trunks in cemetery rows – where glass-eyed flies once clung to fruit, and burst like dandelion heads as we passed above the matted undulations of the grass shot through with rusty pickets – jutting up Like galleon bones, half sunk in silt and scoured pips – mis-sown by time to bare the porous ridges where their flesh hooked on much as it does in us, still straining dark and silent as a dragline in the empty sea, Or the grass that snarling wrecks the wall where a fig switch sits – snapped at the brittle joint, and a trough inclines the rain, whose skin of light crosscut by fine black furrows of shade is like the scale-wrapped flank of a fish. I realise I am sweeping your grave, when – somewhere, a magpie sings, and I look up through the naked lattice of the plum and I see the sky is white, with one red edge, like a segment from a peach.