eggplant is her game

Eggplant, the bruise-fruit, heals

in a darkroom as photographs

of contusions develop.

Gathered in a farmer’s truck,

eggplants appear ready to travel

into outer space, there to visit

purple planets in our galaxy.

The mayor has disappeared.

He was last seen getting into

a taxicab near the produce-market.

He was accompanied by an eggplant,

which he carried in a burgundy valise.

Shiny, soft, and smooth,

eggplants suggest patent-leather

shoes worn by a species whose feet

differ from ours in certain respects.

Although I dislike eating

its slippery flesh, I pay

aubergine certain respects.

There is eggplant. There

it is—a pliable stone

sitting in purple patience

waiting for us to go away.