It's the consistency of flesh that drives us，

    how a pome ascends the stairs

    of its origin. A boy shakes

    pears down off the higher branches

    as his friends scavenge underneath，

    groping for the thing necks.

    If you find yourself holding one，

    hungry， if that's the word，

    then you are testament

    to what festers in its fattened lobe

    like a ball of sugar bees.

    Here is Augustine， his thin

    fingers tearing into skin

    that barely holds the pulp

    around its core. Poised nudes

    forever in their sunny chairs，

    they await whatever plucking

    comes. When they're eaten

    with darkness plunging

    always further into their hearts，

    a few seeds ache then swell 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.