This poem reminds me of how I like pear juice so much because of its fine gritty sweet coolness, and the way cherry tomatoes look in olive oil, watching someone slice cheese with a wire, and breaking the skin of a grape between your smaller molars. That our eyes’ duty to describe ends when something wiser takes over.
Poem Written at Morning
A sunny day’s complete Poussiniana
Divide it from itself. It is this or that
And it is not.
By metaphor you paint
A thing. Thus, the pineapple was a leather fruit,
A fruit for pewter, thorned and palmed and blue,
To be served by men of ice.
The senses paint
By metaphor. The juice was fragranter
Than wettest cinnamon. It was cribled pears
Dripping a morning sap.
The truth must be
That you do not see, you experience, you feel,
That the buxom eye brings merely its element
To the total thing, a shapeless giant forced
Green were the curls upon that head.