As in, "of the horizon"

[CRNDLSM]

I can enjoy the scene, sitting on a beach with my niece who says something cute that sends me on a mental journey.  I like the watermelon imagery throughout, but I think its your weakest end word.  I didnt notice a strict line length so maybe this could come off smoother ending on 'says' or 'digging'  or even 'like', can you would still be able to use watermelons throughout without doubling on watermelon sugar, and 'watermelon slice mouths' while visually compelling, comes out awkward and surreal.  And the one about ants moving watermelon back and forth, unless youre watching ants on the beach moving the specific watermelon youre referencing.  Maybe I just cant relate to eating watermelon on the beach where rinds wash up, sand and all.  Is the vodka on the watermelon youre eating on the beach making you tipsy to have these thoughts? Probably leave out the vodka,
The knees and sitting comments are an odd tangent that I cant connect quite to the seeds, but maybe if knees were in the first stanza and niece was the homonym somewhere in the middle id hold onto it better. The hungry teenagers lurching AND lurking lost me a little although I really like the garrison and towers. 

I dont know who Bethany is or why she wants to feed you to lurkers in the street although turning seeds from bones is fun, 


Sorry if my thoughts are jumbled here, I dont get the title either,  I think this has a lot of potential but has a ways to climb to get there. Thanks for posting!

As in, “of the horizon”

A summer day is something like a watermelon,
Ellis says, digging trenches with her toe, my accomplice niece.
We’ve come to watch seagulls steal bread, to lurk
among the bathers in their underwear like creeps.
I can’t resist—I ask her what she means. You know,
she says. With all the little seeds.

When you spy people from a plane, they look like seeds,
not ants. Ants are always moving chunks of watermelon
back and forth; people know
a hundred thousand different ways to sit. Garrisons of knees
entrenched in sand, vines of sunscreen creeping
down dilapidated towers, and off in the moat, lurking

like assassins: hungry teenage eyes. They lurch and lurk
their way between the waves like seeds
lashed out by trebuchets, creep
around the curl of tides, get washed up like watermelon
rinds along the beach. Ellis always picks her knees
up when she runs. I taught her that, you know.

Her mom’s been riding waves again. I know
the signs: a look over the shoulder, something lurking
in the eyes. Less cogent declarations: Owls have knees,
you know. They just don’t use them. Seeds
have memories and you can train them how to grow. “Watermelon
Sugar” is a remix of a Motown song. Radiohead stole “Creep”

from Pat Metheny. She calls me a creep
for screening her calls, and she’s not wrong, but I know
what goes on. I am properly vigilant: “Watermelon
Sugar” could be their word for the juice. The voice lurking
into my kitchen from a number in Bulgaria perhaps seeds
cells of dealers here who break men’s knees

like melons. I like my knees,
so I don’t mention any of this to Bethany, who creeps
into my room at night to make seeds
from my bones. I know
she’d love to feed me to the lurkers
on the corner with their watermelon

slice-mouths, but there’s vodka in the watermelon, seeds
to plant, and Ellis now is looking bored, lurking low, knees
rising as waves creep in like only they know how.

inspired by alonso romano's excellent sestina, with apologies to the form