It has fallen
from the vine. At first
just bruised, a little brown,
but fine. It stretched and wiggled
as the worm caressed it, and left it,
alone, molested. time weights and sun
sinks the once firm pulp which sighs and links
its molecules to those that waste away.
and everything seems to come and
feast and suck and eat and say
thanks for all the greats and
goods which the green
And truly they were
thankful for it.
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