An Appetite For Strawberries

- For JJ

I crouch under the morning's page of cloud
to pick strawberries.

And as I handle each one under the hose
to check for bruises, would remove them
along with all the bitter white, but each is perfect.

The chill will soon release a sun-drenched heat.
For now, the quiet gray suits the fruit's cool promise:
a satisfying and humid melody.

My tongue, stretched beyond its enameled hall,
anticipates consuming that which it desires;
touches a surface then retreats,
recognizing in the texture something like
your fruit. And I know I cannot, must not eat.

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