nederlandse taal
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Ripeness was a semitone below
the bone clef of the elbow
keying the rain-slicked
cyclone fence: the firm, saclike rind
of a warped minim, golden
drupe note for which we longed.
Stone fruit are fine tutors.
This one unseals a sensual nose hit.
At dusk they go lambent
like chunks of bent gloam.
Sucked, their fibrous pith
is birth-pouf — 
punk oblong pits
belonging in a goblin’s pot,
infused with rich static
and the fresh electric scratchiti
of summer lightning. It’s fortune
gave us this softer unit,
surely. Edgewise the frangipani
made a rain-gap fin
for heads rife with fire
in the shade of the mango belt.