FROZEN COMET APPLES

There are pears of polished onyx, apples bright as frozen comets,
Heavy hanging, softly swaying where no earthly orchards grow.
Taste but one and lose a Tuesday. Taste but two and lose your surname.
Taste but three... No soul can warn thee...
For the Midnight Market knows.

Pretty fruit. Bad manners. The stall that charges in days, not coins.
12×16 matte from The Midnight Market — hunger in a pretty dress.