The bar was fruit
the intention apricot
beer poured into the vessel
office tired weasel
Watermelon double dating
a city with grand internal spaces
a thousand isolated young yearn vaguely
Like a cocoa bean it was a city of large restaurants
giftshops crowding and bulging along narrow lanes of it
Some of us give fruit after a year and shrivel up
and some of us only give fruit after many years of toil
yet never truly shrivel
City steps fall down across it, catching bouncing berries
Trust is the fruit of good exchange
a plantation of good faith is the underlying system
The circus of local harvests tickles your apetite
the circus of this fruity city tickles your face
flooded with dull grain and obsessed with survival
From the outskirts of the concrete mess
into green chaos
You are the very fruit raising lids on containers
of terrible content
Thus your eyes never escape my abundant words
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