Plum sauce…

The plum stone—clasped between modest gold shoulders—announces its polarity (blue/red, warm/cool, earth/glamor) in a light-eating way, washing the skin with royal wealth, forcing the bright to struggle so that it may, in a way, impress further the compliment of pink—the hue of the nail at the end of the finger (or is it nude?)—and how the charm of cleavage moaning off a bottle’s sweating neck conjures the thought of prying loose the stone and feeling its coolness beneath my tongue; present, unseen, dissolving on my mouth’s uneven floor.