With my whole body I taste these peaches,
I touch them and smell them.  Who speaks?

I absorb them as the Angevine
Absorbs Anjou.  I see them as a lover sees,

As a young lover sees the first buds of spring
And as the black Spaniard plays his guitar.

Who speaks?  But it must be that I,
That animal, that Russian, that exile, for whom

The bells of the chapel pullulate sounds at
Heart.  The peaches are large and round,

Ah! and red; and they have peach fuzz, ah!
They are full of juice and the skin is soft.

They are full of the colors of my village
And of fair weather, summer, dew, peace.

The room is quiet where they are.
The windows are open.  The sunlight fills

The curtains.  Even the drifting of the curtains,
Slight as it is, disturbs me.  I did not know

That such ferocities could tear
One self from another, as these peaches do.

He screamed
From what he couldn't see
He screamed
Through the in betweens
And screamed
Of all the things
He never had

Never chanced
For more

Never stood
For more

Than he could afford

A man it is
A mantis
Atlantis in a war
Of sees
Sinking
Quietly
To piece
es

Predictable

Board

Fishing
For
The rewards
Of discord

His apple rotten
To the core

Crying
For
A *****
Amidst the horror
In the store
Of euphoria

In delirium

In the serum
That nearly killed him

Magnificent
Is the malignants
Of his presence
When rejected
From the projections
Of nervous lessons
lessening
The blemishes
Of the beautiful

Reluctant
And dutiful

He paints the faces
With razorblades
And shame
Carving plates
From skin
The sin
Is only in the flesh

Cut the cancer

Win the contest
Of contested
Blessings

Bleeding
From the lips
Of kids

Victim
To the blips
From beyond
The calling
Of calmly talking toos

Three cubes
To clueless

He knew this

As a dream
Within a dream
And construed it
Through another stream

Beaming
The misleading
Lights astray

He was dead
And seething
Perpetually
Grieving
But he likes
To play

I boxed him up
But
I will show you
Someday
Maybe sunday

Okay

I could trace the trail of heartbeats from where
yesterday began and be right back where I am,
but something's different
               (this is new and beautiful)

We stamp letters with the tiny feet, cook
chicken parmigiana meat, our timeline
means a lot because you're in it

(Here and now I'm feeling like I'm living deep
inside the house we picked)

I can almost taste it
     and I'm homesick.