In Benidorm there are melons,
Whole donkey—carts full
 
Of innumerable melons,
Ovals and balls,
 
Bright green and thumpable
Laced over with stripes
 
Of turtle—dark green.
Chooose an egg—shape, a world—shape,
 
Bowl one homeward to taste
In the whitehot noon:
 
Cream—smooth honeydews,
Pink—pulped whoppers,
 
Bump—rinded cantaloupes
With orange cores.
 
Each wedge wears a studding
Of blanched seeds or black seeds
 
To strew like confetti
Under the feet of
 
This market of melon—eating
Fiesta—goers.

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