Some of us have the luxury of vulnerability,
sweet, but ripe
for invasion and colonization, or simply
a day of pillaging here and there.

Others are hard and dry, knowing, already been there before,
already having tried.

Others are keen-eyed, looming over,
tasting it already on their tongues in anticipation,
the fragments of words rippling over the edge,
watching your eyes and your squirms and your sighs,
seeking the entrance to groans and writhing--
or the hall of sorrows, well-locked ossuaries, or sky gardens of private joys.

Some of us know what's what, this goes here and that goes there,
like it or not, know when to stop, now, early, soon,
the knife cuts
here,
in the fruit,
to pierce the skin and separate the skin and the flesh and the pit,
nevermind what it was, now it is something else,
more purposeful in the mouth,
and while once it was the seed of a tree to climb in the sky,
now it is something new and so we will grasp it, display it
and eat it.