no scum, no scullery, no gray sink
or stale air, no dull odor of root rot,
no bad taste lingering
like froth on gristled soup,
when the smallest cavity
does not become a canyon in the mouth,
and the one white fly does not foul
the bowl of fruit,
then we pare
the alabaster peach.
So no more words between us
crusted with crumbs,
no more pleasure in
score and scuff.
We have coated too much
with crisp and syrup.
Let us give each other
words that scour the air
without marring the surface,
words that do not bruuise
the green-eyed pear—
you know what I am skinning—
those moments when what I say
simply becomes you
those moments—
no peel between.
