Blue Rim
Set the table with your heirloom
floral plate. Center a Bosc pear, examine as if it were
the truth expressed as water, as juice. Slice,
noting how if you could
paint, this is where the brush would freeze, assuming the
pear
was too beautiful and the artist lays her
head in her arms knowing that until the
flesh turns, the fruit still begs the tree to
hold it—
as you sometimes wake to feel
the undented
pillow beside you exposed in the blue rim of night-light.
Blank canvas.
