Standing among the tattered rows
carrying the worries of an hour and a season
I pluck you, beautiful orb
Holding the sun’s heat
nightshade perfection
I slice you with a soiled knife
marvel at your color and geometric perfection
juice runs down my hand
You announce the coming summer’s bounty
Always a miracle
I bite your warm flesh
juice sticky on my lip
savory and sweet, sun and umami
salt real or imagined
Combining to make the simplest
and in equal measure, deepest
late July pleasure.

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