We made tapes. They were probably erased like we were.
—Jack Spicer
Watermelon was all I was eating. It was the evening of a perfect
Day.
What was I eating?
I queried the whistling wind,
By gosh!
Why it was cold, syrupy
Watermelon gathered fresh from the garden uphill
At dusk last evening. That voluptuous melon had been
Resting on the shelf, the one with all of the extra space, in the garage
Fridge. For that is where I had left it to be. Until the heat blew up this afternoon.
At Dusk We Always Pick a Melon for Tomorrow
