thursdays suck

Awaiting the impending Bangkok weekend, worrying over miscelaneous foreign fruits proving indigestable, spending all my time dodging from one air conditioned facility to the next, I am a quivering lump of overcaffeinated sticky rice.
Press it out, and you will get a barrel of very strong cider, carbonated foment. These things are difficult for people who exist in metaphor.

Close the spaces between
with a sigh,
heaving from out of depth;
hold no air.
Crease the cloud hanging there
on the lip
of a mason jar from
common past.
Follow basement stairs to
dusty lids,
lightless are preserving
sugared fruits.