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.