RECURSION

A tomato I overlooked on the window ledge,

remembers the hold of vine; the brace of ground,

and puts down roots inside its own flesh.

Halved under the blade of my knife,

the tomato unbinds its shoots, sends them

into an abyss of air and light-

Here at my desk I sit remembering,

putting down words far from the vine

of a native tongue, as if they could be roots,

each, like the tomato with its faith curlicued

in pale inward shoots, calling to itself,

back to the source of fruit.