Has one ever known The therapy of cutting fruit? To pare a pear Its skin left bare And cleaned of its coarse green suit? Underneath The white meat With knife parts so easily That, in my grief Blade unsheathed Slice here and here and here. Sweet relief! The nectars pour In the sink and on the floor, Its ****** sheen --The loveliest I’ve seen!— So I cut more and more. I’ll cut the fruit, just like I said One can't **** what's already dead.