This pear rings Japanese to my mouth—
as thick water poured into polygons,
muddled a scant with an undirectoried
scent—for inches beneath a spotless peel.
This fruit, to my teeth from pear-wood crates,
pulled in a sledge on tin runners—
and the drover plays on a paisleyed lute,
a teardrop he chords on the twanging taut,
chanting a seller’s chant for the lot.
-2005
