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Foreign bodies
snuck among broad-leaved green
a shade too deep for suburbia.
Specked purple, extravagance
scarred by wasps, skin
the worked grain of metal.
Expatriate fruit
surviving out in the cold;
blind snouts of avocado
made possible
by a record summer,
a stubborn mother.
Inside, they split
under their own sagging weight -
till the edge of the breadboard
brims, bright with their oil
and I bite into polyp flesh
not quite sweet.
From Smiths Knoll No 9 (1995)