by Ray Ball, PhD The centertastes likecoconut,drunk as a delicacy.In the moonthe apocalypseof fruit.Inside it,the absence.They requirestrength.It seems incredible that they cancontain whateverI know.And that Iand theyare softin texture. Note from the author: This is a found poem. The original text is Jane E. Mangan’s critical edition of José de Acosta’s Natural and Moral History of the Indies. Ray Ball, Read More