Atone Without a Town

The stone fruit of repentance,
its pit looks into us. Facing
a drupe, the town of its text,
redeems a kernel. Dignity
is fortune lignified by light.
A furry interest develops.
Frowns cling to aggregate fruits,
none disperse like prayers.
Varieties of good and spring;
freestone sour cherries in
dawn’s outer husk. Forgiveness
punishes to whither. Blackberry
brambles shine whiter then.


Jake Sheff