Seeds by John Tustin

The latent seeds
you hold in your hand,
I hold in my heart –

the seeds the assassin
gives us
that crack open
and grow
their long vines,
their dark flowers,

their bittersweet
fruits

that we strangle on,
that we wear like uniforms,
that we devour
in the night

are dissipated
by morning
and only
the mildewed scent
of its soil
remains.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.