Bent over raspberry pie,
my tongue the taproot of my soul.
Gems jammed and canned,
sounding themselves in the crushing.
Rushing to the world, sweetening
the pie. Glorifying snowmelt
and sunshine. Tiny sun-run harvesters,
wide loads running row on row
of wind. Sweetening the Spirit-breath
so it can samba down my tastebuds.
Stomp the Paso Doble up the edges,
the red cape of the bull-fighter
folded into the butter-flaked crust.
Alabaster flask of raspberry juice,
fork-cracked to anoint the mouth’s alleys,
flow up the root system,
and feed my soul.
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