The light let through perfects a flower,
Table, chairs. The shrill air sours:
Fingers will forget the crooked,
Bulbed pear they love to hold.
Eyes will think fine curves less rigid
As the nose, still tuning, wrinkles
To discern a pulse, a tinge or tang
Of green, light perfume, the kiss
That bore the shape that bears the life
That was, the silent shape that was,
That was, perished is -- the shapeless
Silence ears have feared not hearing.
The tongue swells yet, recalls sweet sweats
Beading the pulp, the speckled skin,
The tongue, and the smart fruit
Filling the stomach's bowl, always
Given back its hole of hunger.