It’s hot in this red room,
inside the beating heart of the ritual, explosive

now with duress, bleeding its stress
onto the oriental carpet. The salt, little corrosive

grains of light, works its way into the meat.
We talk. We watch. We eat,

our two miracles ingesting the atmosphere between us.
On the table, a golden plate of apple blooms.

—Sidney Wade, “Siamo a la Frutta”
Art Credit Cy Twombly

3:20 pm  •  19 November 2012  •  126 notes