My shadow reaches out, <br />picks ripe fruits in orchards green, <br />ferments them in heady intoxications <br />and mixes them in blenders. <br /> <br />The flesh best discarded <br />and only the pure juice drunk, <br />most suited to noblest rank <br />but my shadow does not shun <br />pulp fiction.<br /><br />David Taylor<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/reader-digests/
