Black plum by Eric Nunnally


A heavy ball ripe,
black and round;
cold and wet
with morning dew...

Sweet within,
so smooth its skin:
to pierce the flesh is my desire.
Soft, crisp scent, night-purple skin,
the orange-pink flesh invites my sin...
and so then I embrace the fire.

Open wound, oh! sweet the juice;
petals now are open full.
Now within I drink my fill
and capture every waterfall...

The essence of thirst,
like a plum busted red,
is a very wet redness
searching for blue...

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