Over ripe, hung low
from heaven’s branches, 
I suppose-
or the sky for those 
who believe in science
and have lost faith in an
exalted power;

but to the clouds,
hung heavy
forming a dome blocking
any sunlight or set-
dismissive of our collective
need for it to drop &
soak into the ground;

somewhere, above it,
perfect fruit lies-
science or God
be damned, for 
the joy in the break
is my wish alone.

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