Robert Gray
A Bowl of Pears
Swarthy as oilcloth and as squat
as Sancho Panza
wearing a beret’s little stalk
the pear
itself suggests the application of some rigour
the finest blade
from the knife drawer
here
to freshen it is one slice and then another
the north fall south fall
facets of glacier
the snow-clean juice with a slight crunch that is sweet
I find lintels and plinths of white marble
clean angled
where there slides
the perfume globule
a freshness
like the breeze that is felt upon
the opening
of day’s fan
Enku
sculptor of pine stumps
revealed the ten thousand Buddhas with his attacks
the calligraphic axe
Rationalized shape shaped with vertical strokes
I have made of your jowled
buttocks
a squareness neatly pelvic
A Sunday of rain
and like a drain
a pipe that was agog and is chock-a-block the limber thunder rebounds
and bounds
it comes pouring down
a funnel the wrong way around
broadcasts
its buffoon militance over the houses all afternoon
Undone
the laces of rain
dangle on the windows
now slicing iron
a butcher is sharpening
the light
of his favourite knife
its shimmers carving stripes into the garden
And I have carved the pear-shaped head
with eyes
close set
as pips that Picasso saw his poor
friend who had gone
to war
a cubist
snowman the fragrant and fatal Apollinaire
