dummy

There are wasps inside your pears so
you don’t see them as I will:
stone-kettle, stone/stone, jackfruit. You see
them as ripe, ripening bells.
How much difference there is
in the way we settle the score. Green one. Brown nothing.

Tomorrow, the pears will be falling.
The wasps will fly. You will say
flying wasps from two pears.
They will have wet wings, pear wings,
sugar wings. They will fly sweetly.
Oh, they will fly (sweetly).

But there is nothing,
no poem in the heart of pears. Wasps re-land
in the cavity: it means parturition; it means loss.
For your sake, I will think about brown things.
For instance, I can’t imagine you without dirt.
And then I can’t think about pears without dirt.

When pears fall,
mourning is the substance they rely on;
the almost hard surface, the fact. They fall
mostly after summer: in October, in September,
and in August. The frugal light of August
ought to be called pear-light.

As pears admonish me, they diminish you.
What is the mind before discipline? What if I could call
the skin of a pear, a pelt? The tactile second you enter, it’s
the phenomenological, the other skin. Not a pear but
a ripe belly. That makes it pears us, us zero.
And even more brown.

So I can do nothing, I can only make love to you
with these pears. Because they’re sulk, they’re
falling fruit. Like near-over-ripe bells
the sun gives them no reason to cease. If you would
call the time, I would call it ten. Put pears
in a basket–some gold, some yellow. Soft and rung.