Sun like molten copper
Pouring down as tawny liquid
Golden-hot, burning the skin.
Air thick and heavy
If I were a sponge
I could drink it as water.
I hear the plants grow
They rustle in the hot air.
They grow fat upon it.
The smells are intoxicating
More heady than a glass of wine.
I am drunk on the heavy air.
The sharp pop of a berry
Plucked from the green, green vine
It is warm and soft in my hand.
It is sweet and hot in my mouth,
It tastes of the copper sun.
Pleasure is a hot berry field in June.
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