Her equator 
drives the South Bell, haunts it
in the waters we see the never-leave.
What is in this thought and where was it made?
What trellis climbs the leafy climbers
and the attitude of blush too
sends messages up, 
speak me
to bellbirds and honey-eaters,
even worms
bade you last chance apple
to fall from your tree.
Never touch the ground from where your foot does drink?
Good there,
are captives here,
suspensions of disbelief.

With ink and alphabet,
think of it 
as colorless.
As Seed.
To the center of the apple
only fruit and therefore flesh
and at times she eats the core thinking the trees won't fruit again
for a thousand years....
When then the halls ancestral, 
secured for these summers safely
speak me as if in secret to
those dark grape arbors

beneath the blackberry vines,
to bellbirds and honey-eaters,
on climb the leafy shade makers,
make a slow trellis of themselves,
overgrow the slow birds and bears
in a fattened  winter  sleep.