To My Writer Friend

A banana so fed up it's begun
to peel itself-the slit is raw and dark
and dry-everything is dry-the banana
pines for the structures of falling honey
whose bubbles, looping and breaking, conflate
ideas of time and softness. Yes-
I could have said-I've come only for your
poems again, but I lust after them. They
disarm me. I have seen you naked, found
your smell, like something rough in trees, bound up
in my thoughts. Spastically it (the snake) chews up
in my stomach, and my lips break, fed up
with winter. See, I try not to conflate
taste with good taste. The flayed banana sobs.

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