The taste of peaches
Could never satisfy him
Nor nectarines
 
Not white, nor yellow ones
Their pitted hearts coarse and ugly
Betraying their poison
Rough on the tongue, dangerously
Weightless, easily ingested by
Accident
 
(harmless in small amounts, he was told)
 
So unlike their sweet flesh
Supple, under downy or waxed skin
The colour of roses and bruises,
Or an innocent's blush
Ripening with days irreversible
Yielding to his bite
 
(eventually always yielding)
 
An exquisite conflict of habit
Leaving him endlessly wanting