Melons sleep in dried riverbeds
Lying amid short-lived creepers
On a summer baked sandy bed,
Big on them with bloody insides.
Once in a side-walk marketplace
Their red smile is truth and blah,
The truth in your tooth and claw.
Their numbers pile one over one
To fingers indecent around them
Like an autumn’s mellow women
Of onomatopoeic melon shapes.
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