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As if the flesh had come apart
            in my hands to tell of it—light

come through the vague furred frame

             then coming through deeper, as I cut
the skin away, so that it seemed deep green 

            was an order of light unto itself,

what wrought at the center 

            among seeds, its issue, could be

revealed as the system

             I was going toward, all this time.

All this time, sharing a part
            of the fruit with distraction

but keeping the most for selfishness, 

            trying to get to the generous

heart—which tastes the same
            or doesn’t, quite, but adheres 

to the same principles: you won’t
            lose yourself inside of me

one says, while another: pass into it
            and when the arrow hurts yield,

but not to pain, no not to pain:
            to knowing you are the arrow too.