I stand out - by
spotting green plants with red,
darkening evening sun
into orange and brown and black.
I am called strawberry.
In high summer,
when light starts to cool,
people sit in little circles,
plop me into jugs of ice and Pimms,
talk and sing ‘til evening
when drunken ghosts come out
under rising moon.
I am blobs of tang
and sweetness,
a fibrous pool
seeking entry
into your stream of redness,
blood.
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