It may be time to give up.
The fruit gnawed to the rind
begs you  to eat more,
so it blights, so it hurts. The worst
peach pit is one caught in the teeth,
wood with no sign of the tree.

The twist that took it from the branch,
the weight as it dropped to palms
is gone. How it smelled through the skin,
the ripe that could not stay in,
all thinned to naught, a knot of loss
in the throat that ate it, a sharp shard.

In a museum there is a town
carved into a peach pit,
where a man climbs his stairs
to a brown house with a porch,
a dog, a wife to come home to when
his small work is done.

A tale told in seed, held
in light too soft to burn.
It is so long since its maker held it,
since eyes fell on this hard,
naked thing and carved to what
seemed like it could never happen.

The years retain the peace on his face,
the dog’s tongue. The stair still goes up
to the same door. The fruit
is not missed, nor the fall, nor
the ends it may have had
to give up.