cobalt

My hands grope vainly in a glass fruit bowl,
knocking, bruising plastic grapes, apples, pears.
An inedible wax feast. YOU OPEN,
MANY MILES AWAY. Wait; fine fuzz...>>> here >>>,
a swelled orange red peach, actual and fair.

You stomp cross concrete on Third Ave.. The spray
of snow puddles squirts your ankles; soft hair
on your thigh trills; you enter the subway.

I tear open that juicy peach, display
pinkness, pulpy fluids. Dig inside,
get the pit. Im starved.


YOU ARE SO FAR AWAY.

So sweet. Once Ive taken your mouth. Felt heat.
I devour open space. The fruit decays.
O, your lips be not peach, but I must eat, eat eat.