Unnamed Fruit

The waves pull back and the stilt-legged plover
plucks morsels from the drift, over and over,
until the brick-limbed crab the color of
oil comes, and hawks follow her,
squat creatures with yellow eyes
lazing like clouds in the slump-shouldered skies,
above a forest that will bloom to wasteland;
there grows a fruit that will never be tasted
and seems all the sweeter for it.

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