I saw the sun-wink of your gold
watch band, your pearl-button cuffs,
your wrist's furrowed sinews, your thick
fingered palms, soiled thorough with hunger—
your gardener hands that spent years
preening, pruning, waiting, for me
to bear myself to their fruition,
hands that trembled now with such
loving care as they mitted me with a warm press
that made me want to split my skin...

With the stem-twist, you set into motion
the transcendence we had both waited
so many growing seasons for...

...you picked me...
And in the quease of excitement I realized that in knowing the sublime
nirvana of the devouring, my annihilation would be complete, and I would
be a part of you, grafted to your soul...

I was so ripe to be lost in you, I wanted it then, in the orchard,
I didn't want to wait.