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.