Or stopped short
Refining my feel
For the delicate dangerous avocado
Fresh off the potter’s wheel
But we must wait for it to be cooked
And slowly ripened in the dying fire
Buried in its pit
Until the blackening of the skin
Signals its flesh is read to be halved
And we must learn to squeeze
The fat seed from its cradle
And spoon out the beautiful
Green babies as if they
Were life itself
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