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He trepans with the blunt screwdriver on his penknife: unripe figs require the touch of air on flesh to sweeten Blind, but in his fingertips he has the whole knot of this fig-tree memorised   The five inch scar, a vague felt mesh of parallelogram, was where he bandaged up a split branch once He starts from there, first hand-height fruit and then he gets the ladder   Gauge weight, turn, unturn He sings beneath his breath about the excellence of figs, their mellowness, their skin-dints like the perfect undulation in the small of his wife’s back