Persimmon by Tom Schwider

you walk like a geisha into the bedroom
wearing white socks
and wanting to wave your fan

my hands feel you
persimmon the oblate fruit
astringent
ripe

my lips pucker
and pluck through the folds
of your pink calyx center
and you make little
winter moans

budding
blooming
into a hundred
perfect blossoms
male and female
my face puckery
at the final pungent
purgative purposeful push

into susan
 




Tom Schwider lives a mundane life of little significance in Chicago. His only hope is that string theory is correct, that there are eleven dimensions, and that some day he might find that one of those dimensions makes a little more sense than the one he is in now. In the meantime he depends on good books to get him through the day.