from troubled sleep
I wake and turn
to find solace
in the warm curve
of your skin
then rise and head down
the stairs to find
the fruit you brought
for us to eat
last night
I open a slit
beneath the soft fuzz
and pull the pliant skin
until the peeled peach
lies slick between my fingers
with my thumb tip
I slip the hard center
slowly from the ripe flesh
like a monk’s head
from under a cowl
until the juice flows
across my hand
and I take that first
delicate bite
(September 8, 2013)

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