Think of my decay 

                          as a peach    Softened with sweet 

                  fuzz and overripe;       Press firmly to that

           which is        purpled and yielding and unlovely, 

       and still            stain me into spiral fingerpads 

     and bury your molars          deep into candied 

     marrow     My rot is the mealy pulp beneath

      summer-leathered skin,      bruised and  plump 

       with sap and pallborne by      buzzing fruit flies that

           lap voraciously at syrupy flesh              (regard me 

                posthumously as                  perpetually edible) 

                    When you recall me,   do so with sticky

                       fingers and bared teeth strung with 

                              The   honeyed meat of me 

                                   or do not recall me 

                                               at all