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Pineapples And Pomegranates

 To think that, as a boy of thirteen, I would grapple 
with my first pineapple, 
its exposed breast 
setting itself as another test 
of my will-power, knowing in my bones 
that it stood for something other than itself alone 
while having absolutely no sense 
of its being a world-wide symbol of munificence.
Munificence—right? Not munitions, if you understand where I'm coming from.
As if the open hand might, for once, put paid to the hand-grenade in one corner of the planet.
I'm talking about pineapples—right?—not pomegranates.

Poem by Paul Muldoon
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