Holding Your Flesh

by George Bowering

I stood by the counter that held me up,
looking at this and that, then picked up
an old wrinkly brownish apple, hello,
how long you been here in this fruit bowl,

who are your friends, I’ll be your friend,
look at me, one leg shorter than the other,
one eye with clouds across it, fingers asleep,
toes unconscious, hair dry and empty of grace,

I will be your daily partner, you stay there,
I won’t bite you with my porcelain teeth,
this implanted machine in my chest is counting
the days left to you and me, I once found

a chunk of wood made of stone, older than we
will ever be can you imagine the secret pain
shooting across the back of the hand that was
holding your flesh, I can’t stand here much

longer, are you afraid I will eat you, or
longing for my sore teeth to complete you,
or should I prefer to eat a peach and try to find
any new poetry in that non–event, all of us
so far from our trees?