It is midsummer, and noon.
The sharp scent of tomato leaf,
a brightness on the plant
pulls me to it.
Bristled backs brush my hand
as I pluck the red sphere.
My lips and tongue
quiver at its smooth approach.
My teeth break through.
The hot juices spill out.
A crashing percussion fills my head
and a piquant spice my mouth.
My eyelids fall shut.
I stop mid-step on the back stair
shaken like a rope toy between the puppy's teeth
out of my Escherian cubicle
and into a pleasured realm.
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