It's the consistency1 of flesh that drives us，
how a pome ascends2 the stairs
of its origin. A boy shakes
pears down off the higher branches
as his friends scavenge underneath3，
groping for the thing necks.
If you find yourself holding one，
hungry， if that's the word，
then you are testament4
to what festers in its fattened5 lobe6
like a ball of sugar bees.
Here is Augustine， his thin
fingers tearing into skin
that barely holds the pulp7
around its core. Poised8 nudes9
forever in their sunny chairs，
they await whatever plucking
comes. When they're eaten
with darkness plunging10
always further into their hearts，
a few seeds ache then swell11 black
as appetite. Or as their profile
imitates a lover's falling
breasts， we take them in
as we do our own bodies，
as infants do， wanting anything
to give our wanting form.