Watermelon always on my head this autumn,
My leaf flew off in monstrous wonder.
Autumn thumbelina, hidden between the leaves
O, sunshine! O, October angels!
Almost naked… I’m a baby on a blanket.
Head enclosed, mind protected,
Under my hat, a plastic memory,
Broken stem, too-small wings, will I ever climb up the vine?
Strange little head in a strange little melon, cosmic horror.
No shoes, no running, no thought about escape,
No nose, three lashes for per eye, face from the uncanny valley.
These wings are meant for flying, not for
Walking aimlessly along the riverbank.
If only the wind could rustle my feathers like these autumn leaves.
Nude but no naked, crude but not vacant, gaze alludes…
Watermelon head thinks evermore.
Written collectively by the Quarto Staff at a picnic in Riverside.