I
am the canned peach
cut in half, no skin,
no pit
swimming in
non-juice…
Tasting somewhat like
myself
Better at least, than
the canned pear
This canned peach
knows fractions
beyond halves –
devolving memories –
like segmented fruits
– I run
and run and run and
run away from the can
But escape is a
discipline I’ve never mastered
Further on is a coat
or goat – can’t
quite make it out –
but I’m running, right?
So this mangled angel
appears –
must be fifteen feet
tall, and I ask
‘Where is the fork
stuck in you?’
And you answer,
rocking steadily –
‘The can is our
home.’