Divine nectar, stranded

Wistful on their tongues,

The rural settlers linger

Vainly for another sighting of

Their guests — the damsels,

And a final taste of the foreign offering:

Unnamed summer fruit,

A richer golden than the exotic tresses,

A lusher meat than the cajoling lips.

Their visitors have departed

Without final pleasantries,

Off to reap the pulsating crop, born of

Their inane hamlet,

From every strip of fragrant peel

That has fleshed out tissues,

Each morsel of relish that has

Crafted their ventricles, carved out

Atria, squeezing out the last drops of their blood

From the wrung-out remains of the sweetest pulp

Into fresh arteries, clinging

To the insides of an obscure lair

That bears fruit now—crimson and luscious.