´óÏó´«Ã½

I remember the summertime when I,
The Big Chief would dispense the fruit into infinite outstretched hands.
Sticky and squelching under your vice-fingers
You smeared its sweet pink flesh across your lips:
Guzzling greedily as the lazy flies buzzed around our heads.
Our palms were stained red by the ink,
So we washed them in the yellow-river,
Where courting dragonflies with tissue-paper wings sipped the surface.
Then, when our hands were clean, we'd run barefoot on the scorched grass,
Until we felt the smooth, cool flagstones on our feet and we were home again.