Meditation on a Pomegranate

by Samuel Derrick Rosen

I am meditating
on a pomegranate
at 3 O Clock in the afternoon,
lusting after locusts, envisioning
vows of silence while you
stare at some impressionist
painting in a museum
full of dry romantics
pretending they suffer
from delirium tremens.
You flex your stomach muscles
and try to adapt
to your boyfriend's obsession
with a Pink Lady.

Bloodthirsty chimeras lure
acrophobics to the rooftops,
to purr at The Hunter's Moon.
In ears of heartsore hipsters
a mongrel voice whispers,
that April sometimes kills
and December can bring rebirth.

by the illusion of the mortal mind,
by things that were not created,
a paleolithic paramour,
you sense something's hidden
in the fires and in the metals,

in the sub-texts of the architects,
in the cardboard walls of the galleries,
in the statues of the angels
lining sun drowned courtyards,
in the unholy configurations
of minds engrossed in a crystal moon.

As for me,
I am meditating
on a pomegranate
at 3 O Clock in the afternoon.