“Poire,” a pear that’s stalwart in the bosk;
plushed with water, anchored stemwise
into the speaking dazzle—the bird-strewn
private reserve.
Magnate, pear’s-juice in the glass,
five inches full of cigar blunts that—
and ash-flake smoulder, falling dimmed
to plug holes worn in spidery leaves.
-2003
