On levering a fork, the earth
opens and potatoes fall out.
I've stabbed one - another
looks whole, but is a house
for a slug. But the others feel
heavy and good, like eggs.
Another fork stab uncovers a hole
glistening with a thousand angry eyes
like a buzzing diamond mine - my heart
jolts and I feel as morbid as Ted Hughes'
gas bill. But the wasps forgive me, just
murmur with suspicion, and I gather
the scattered spuds reverently
and bung the hollow ones away.