o fig, fist of flowers, o ostiole entered

as a wasp might enter it, pollinate it knows
not what, then die inside, be clinched
into sugar in the sweet spot, this sweet
fig that you bring home to me and give
to me to try

I do not eat it
I leave it instead on my desk, it eats itself, I think of you
when I see it, joshua
you have lost weight

it's spring again, and the animals sleeken and fuck
and flowers reintroduce openness to the world
and we can destroy ourselves as much
by what we do not eat as what we eat
without thinking, what hunger
I feel—that o

for your o—when I touch the inside
of your thigh, and feel you
feeling me, feel you
shivering, under me, forewings dissolving

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