The poetry of kiwi is glow of pale green flesh beneath brown fuzz of unshaven cheek.  An ice and crystal green, exotic and black-flecked. Cut slices are uncanny irises, entrancing like the eyes of cats and Egyptian goddesses. In this world but not of it.  A kiwi is young magic, ripening, tremulous, sweet. Sporting the beginnings of beard by way of thin disguise.

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