An orb of summer fruit, a perfect sphere
of nectarine, red-orange flecked with gold,
arrayed with plums and peaches, forms a tier
of bounty in the galley. Someone sold
us luxury and decadence indeed –
for produce stocked a week ago is not
a feast. There’s brownness sweet around the seed;
beneath the firm inviting skin is rot.

Abundance isn’t wealth. Appearance wins
pale victory. This nectarine is just
a piece of fruit too early picked. Compared
to wax it’s genuine, with origins
in earth, except it might as well be dust:
I take a bite and taste corruption bared.