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Poem	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.
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