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the unexpected pleasure of a peach

zenith moist, ripened to the exact state
when peaking is a squealing of bite size wet living pleasures,
and all is conquered,
and of course,
you're filled with loss
at the absence of perfection
in important things,
now with despair destructed,
new fear infecting fears
so many forces intersecting,
and one simply wishes to surrender
and then the peach texts the brain

*no way
you may have peaked,
but tomorrow and fore-next,
you'll pick another like me,
and plant my pit beneath
your picture window
and must perforce
live another day
in the shadow of my hope,
the scent of my existence