We picked those fruits
a long time ago, in a dream that lay closer than

it lies now. Their bruised skins surrendered
drunken pulp, sweeter than sin and softer

underfoot; wasps gorged themselves
on the bloodied earth after the last overflowing

baskets were turned through metal
into glass. It would break your heart

to know how we’d wasted that year,
how it aged us to salvage

the only bottle untouched by smoke
and shrapnel. I heard it tasted

of dust. Of once upon a time.

firebottle (ohgodgeese)

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