Owl of the Pear
Last night I
sliced
a pear from head to hip
and then
from head to
hip
again
and the seeds
were black
eyes and the long
sweet point
dripping,
her beak. And
through spicy cheeks a mar-
velous pensive stare
as though this bird
were the one
with
the knife
as though those
cheeks,
pale pale pink,
blushed for its own
paused want but
could
if
I asked
it to, wait all
after-
noon in this bowl
among chunks of its own
self, going brown,
un-
perturbed
like every owl in
no great hurry is:
—bowl-nest or branch,
because
something,
eventually,
scurries
by…
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