In Bitter Fruit

In bitter fruit, surrounded by mouths
seedy and stringed with fleshy bits
Of red and juice, then squeezed tight
On it with convulsive ferver,
there is a mix of taste and face,
tissue, and abundance
Of the senses, sensed,
Unworn, untold, uneaten
‘Til it is, and then,
It goes into the office of the stomach
Where it licks itself clean
With its own digestive bitters
And smokes up through the chimney of the body,
Laughing at itself for knowing
All along what being eaten
Was, knowing somehow
Seeds were made for stomachs
And rebirth into something through
The ground, through smell, through
Black and cumulous curds,
Just as it suspected.