Pears Are the Body of Life and Love
(The Concrete Surrealism of Love)

This is a tree,
and love is the oak tree by the farmer's creek,
that knotted branch
that forks toward the warm barn.
This is a cloud.
We give love
in the shape of a bird,
though, on second look,
it is a dragon.
This is water.
We receive love,
clear, on the tongue,
from the blackberry jar,
rinsed
twice.

The drip in the faucet
is as big as a river on a dry day
when we thirst.
We walk in the middle of love
sometimes
and see it only as something wispy
and thin.
We climb a tree only to find
apples or nuts,
but there is a vision of hills,
and a pear, for roasting.

Where do men go when they die?
Does the soul ask in, in Heaven,
where has my chair gone?
Where is my pipe?
The soul does reckon on mangrove leaves
and it breathes oxygen
where lovers walk
where there are no clear signposts,
only vague and awesome whispers
that come from the stars
or other worlds,
and sometimes there appears
a trace
in black Egyptian scrawl
on the back of a paper napkin:
Reality has gone
to the seashore inn
for the next twenty minutes,
is spooning
clam chowder from the russet bowl.
So with a kiss,
we know the fruit dessert,
walk away,
leaving tasty crumbs,
then fly.

(Revised)