A woman is not an apronful
Of peaches
Loosed on a slate drainboard
Late in lackadaisical
Sun, that sweet billiard break
Of wobble and
Rubbed cheeks.

But take peaches, loaded thick
In a bushel basket.

That one, middle way down,
Small, but too ripe
For culling out,
The weight of overfill
Above, pressing it
Flush between slats,

Where it bruises, a slight
Nectary rivulet
Turning woodgrain
Dark,
And, not taking eyes from it
Till it reaches
Bottom,

This tickle
At the back of the throat.