Hark-Back Molass

Hark-Back Molass

I ate too late.
And if I know the mind,
My mind will ache,
And ooze into
Two dry uneaten rinds
Of pecked into fruits,
That drip
Like stretching glass
In syrup threads
And jewels of black,
Onto the earth,
Beneath the grass,
To pool where roots won't absorb
As sap attracted insects track
Through the pass, we can't ignore,
Of pungent thoughts in dark morass.
Time, a gruel of moving memory,
That cruel and sweet hark-back molass.