Half is good:
the stem-end ringed
the blossom-end
still firm below.
The second half
is black inside
where fungus fingers
grasp its seed
and compost lingers.
What’s left of harvest
insecure
like gladness spoiled
inspires craving
for things unboiled.
A careful slice
diagonal
divides the red
from slime and rot:
fresh fruit instead.
Light preserved,
darkness done
in tiny sweetest
taste of sun.
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