In the Orchard of Star Fruit
       

where after storm clouds ion-charged rains' onshore
dishevelings

the manna grass sways no opinion where the lost
path begins

where no other sign if ever but the orchard
of star fruit

where stars' shapes descend upon near-
sighted seers

where fishermen trust in absence buoys
nets coils of manila

with no wonder no art intended

the easel paint splattered and splayed
in the weeds

the cistern's cool vault of spring water
wears a sweater of

mosses two strands of wire guide Félicité
y Clement Santa y Santo

in keeping the fishermen's winch clevis-and-
cable the finca's cabañas

coconut palm fence posts

full-flowering hedges the cove's throat gaping
onto the sea

near Isla del Caño west of the orchard of star
fruit where sleeves

of reef fish flap against set lines near the twilight-
lit wreck of

the lighter

barbed wire stars seize relics of hair
but no fees for

nest-weavers

where chance is a new moon's bent needle
divining no pole star

nor nuncio's five-cornered hat

and two horses foresee no joy
and no sorrow

weighing low branches our hands
full of ripe

star fruit of the fourteen trees of the orchard
juice-gravid fruit

and no art

no wonder intended no impoverishing bench-
mark no satellite

radians reciprocals waypoints no word to say
where the lost path begins

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Copyright © 2012 Robert Grunst All rights reserved
from Blue Orange
The Ashland Poetry Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission