heavenly
than the church bells
ringing
from the rusted
white truck
selling
sno-cones on a hot summer day.
the old man
smiling
as he scooped shaved ice into
the white
coned cups,
pouring
the blood of cherries,
the greens
of limes,
the cut drizzles of
blueberries.
all of it staining our
t-shirts
our shorts,
our lips with the elixir
of sweet
childhood wines.
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