Fruit of the passion flower in a secret room.

It has been a long time since a theory of illusion

was accepted by blue herons flying over the city.

Fruit of the exchange sliced into pieces geometrically

entering the body, nourishing the migration of butterflies

to be studied, but not tracked down in time.

Fruit of the flower mistaken for angels

and troubled monks who lick their fingers

of the sticky substance, go on with their task

of converting magic into dogma, the juice

of the fruit gathering in clay jars to become

the ballad of the body they were warned about.

Fruit of the harvest given its seed, its ecstasy promising

nothing to those desiring more than the pickings from

a trembling branch with its holy hair of the invisible.

Fruit in lavender glass bowls armed with moisture

from the laps of windows, mistaken for the divinity

of prophetic apples, bitten into by ripe ghosts full

of oranges, lemons, and darkening bananas—

yearning passed beyond the evil waters found

in the crushed fruit, the disappointment of finding

the pulp is dangerous overcome by emptying it

into the open mouth, this communion

between the hummingbird and its one prayer.