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Like a convent of gibbering
witches,
We ate melon in the sun:
Cantaloupe and honeydew.
The juices sucked our
fingers:
Our very pores spat
seed.
After running the bean trees
Into three hours ago,
The summit was ours:
Moon-cold honeydews,
Fairy-pearl cantaloupes.
We stomped like fire
And twisted the slivered rinds
Into our curls.
Long after sunset,
Sap-sucked to the nape of the
hill,
Our eyes became
bright charentais
And we burst, too ripe.
(This thought was brought by the
pungent smell of a charentais melon in my bedroom, whose source must
recieve full credit for any quality.)
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