I’m keeping oranges on my bedside table
Watching, while I wait for them to decay
I have heard that there is a peculiar beauty in mould
The slow encroachment of white and green spores
Across suntanned skin
At first, so I am told, the fruit will keep its shape
Apparently unaffected, it will wear a new coat of fur
Its spherical precision will start to fade
The slow cycle of roundness will blur
A first casual glance reveals no change
But then the decay prevails
And slowly an internal rot will become
And the fruit collapses; breathes its last breath of spores,
Which in the stillness of my room
Will circle on cushions of air,
But find no further fresh fruit to corrupt.
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