Hanging

The fruit droops into the pool of silence.
Its sclereids disintegrate to archaic light:
a rainbow justly intoned, in Pythagorean tune,
where each separate hue perdures, apart,
in a moment of cohesion and negentropy.
Two suns are spooling, one below
a primitive of physics and toy theosophies
which reconstructs the music of the spheres,
soon consuming its core and cooling,
rescinding its seed, reducing itself to rind.
The water receives its reintegrated beams
in perfect absence—unsensed silence gleams.