Suck out its bitter juice and spit to the sea its thick seeds.
Gnash out its pinky flesh so the strings of it hang from your teeth.
Skies are not for observing but devouring.
So that constellations are like Pop Rocks snapping on your tongue.
So that the moon and sun are the grapefruits of the heavens.
And the bitterness in their juice is all the secrets they keep.
And maybe they will nourish with their almost unknowableness.
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