she came 
to be at the beach with me
she took out 
purple grapes out of her bag
and green apples
that I broke into moist pieces 
with my teeth
her breasts were small
hips wet with sand
laughter full of pearls
she loved herself to death in a blue mink
on that beach
squeezing lemon into the water
juice flowing down her hands like a sour river

my afternoon came to me 
on that beach
I had to sit on the bible today 
so she doesn’t speak to me anymore

people ask me why
my poetry is so cruel
so dead
“it is not” I tell them
ask the damned and the favoured
they will tell you
that my poems live
that my plants are happy
they’ve been sober all week

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