Absorbing and being absorbed.

The scary, self-embalming, pickled peach.

I can’t bear to look at you untrue, in unnatural brashness.

Who’s pride do you measure by? Not mine. You’re a good egg I said:

‘You’re peachy.’

Its just,

 you’ve stuck your face on sadly.

Sour plum skin, crowded by cobbles,

and quiffs of tufted catkin.

Where corals in outcrops are wrinkly things, that channel chased ink,

under shadowy brows.

Wells of pooling blues, look at me look at you, sunken squid.

Where pinkness peeks from worries branching out, a forest of thorns.

Before you.

Where are your lips? Underkissed. Where is your tongue?

 Swimming in vinegar.

Don’t be preserved changed, pre pickled for your prime by some

witches hex.

You’ll be marked by the way you frown, not by the way you laugh.

And what’s the good in that

  for a bowl of old cherries.