Newer and seasonably appropriate poem for you (yes, you specifically).



Summer Fruits


Fingertips fuchsia from

dissecting the pale hearts of

clot-dark cherries.

They stain apricots:

finely velvet and cleanly wounded;

then flowery limes and honey

to macerate.

Nothing isn’t sex:

hands in the strawberry patch,

oil rising from

pressed citrus skins.

All bodies are bruise-able when ripe,

all delicious.


I crave your flavors

with all this

sweetness and

bloody berry – need

salinated sweat slick.


Stone fruits

not my: stoned fruit,

not my: dripping honey.

Devour me please,

before I decompose.


About jake.forrest

Poet. Songwriter. Etc. View all posts by jake.forrest

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