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À Bout de Souffle
Out of Breath
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Plum
by: E. A. Bartholomew

I pluck’d a fledgèd Fruit
I pluck’d it of its feathers:
Clipp’d it round and tugg’d the Root
And snipp’d the woody Tether.

I saved the Fruit a thresh
More craggy than my Fist,
But then I bit more bitter Flesh
Than e’er my lips had kiss’d:

The Skin, a Bible Black;
The Flesh, that Hearty Red
That cross’d a Shield and shun’d Attack
Before a Beat were bled.

Could Constantine have seen
The piety-worthy Pit,
Or e’en the Font that fill’d between
The Skin my teeth had split,

The Sight would surely rouse
The spilling of his Spit;
For this apostate Pulp could douse
The firy Chi-Rho Writ.

You are no thing of God,
My Plum,

And so I freely loot
What you would cede to Waste;
There is no forbidden Fruit
Except by Human Taste.

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