Ode to a Prune

Folded soft,
all shine and black
Fruit of dew and branch and snap
Sits congealed in empty rays
Awoken late to fluorescent days

On my finger,
stuck flesh beseeching
But my tongue well practiced,
reaching
Driven on by impulse foolish
To slippery end,
repentant soap dish

In my swallow,
forms move with embraces
Towards the higher,
along snail traces
Belted in,
driven out
What the f is this hurt about?