Shopping for fruit, 


Weighing the heft of canteloupes and melons 


Feeling the soft down on red yellow peaches 


And the smooth skin of nectarines, 


The plump firm softness of orange apricots. 


There are the bananas firm and not quite ripe 


Pushing outward on their skin 


Pointing horizontally like locked and loaded guns. 


Everywhere, the sense of bursting liquid 


Crisp but yielding flesh 


And the smell of lush green life not yet lived. 




At home the fruit’s laid out 


Skinned like beef, the juices spilled. 


The peach has filled a mouth with water 


And sweetly yielded up its nut 


For twirling by the tongue. 


The rinds of things half eaten 


Are abandoned all around 


And emptied of their jizzom. 


The flies descend to eat and lay their eggs 


In rotting garbage in the back. 


Hollow and forlorn 


The yellow covering of the banana lies limp on the table.