This poem
      trickles it's nectar
      and the world is hungry

Little beaking wings grasp
          at the cinnamon skin;

           here, here, so seems
                    to say the pear

           here my color is real
           on mouths the ghost
           of  the fruit dances

  it leaves a frightening smile,
 
       It leaves in leafing,
        gliding as drops
       the purple spots on it's skin
                                          
                              who were they, their souls,

                              and do they, in the orbit
                                                     of   this
                                            poem still
                                       linger

                         isn't that pain, a sweet bite
                         of the thought on the world

                         a touch on the core of the world,
       
                                on the black pearl resting,

                                    but even it's darkness,
                                  even the black night
                                    simply is sad nightness

                                              falling out
                                               through  it's self  ...