Fruit Market
I rob the bees
for my skull of wax.
Behind yellow sunglasses
and a summer cold
that keeps me distant,
that justifies syrupy reactions,
I am drowsy happy.
The day seems dirty gold
and reveals itself through
honeycomb lattice,
drip-feeds me glazed images,
traffic a choked lemon blast.
Others seem busy
in the hive, productive
as I should be:
a girl dances secretly, almost
imperceptibly buzzing
as she lays unripe fruit
on fake grass,
the just-lit smell of her sneaked
cigarette makes me
suck my pencil and
buy a plum.
It looks unreal as does
my tinted hand and
I hardly taste it,
but my teeth break
the skin and the wet spray
hits my mouth
like unpeeled reality.
Like summer.
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