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.
