(from pears--poems for Braden Russell's 57 pear sculptures)

Rind, wrapped
of its own generation
holding itself watery
internally. The skin
separable only with
violence, precision
malicious alteration.

It's true the face
shows its contents
though speech aspires
otherwise, "I am fine!"

You are not fine. You
are paler green and worrisome.
Pallid and scathe easily.

The footprints are apparent.
Someone has been here.

When last aware
it was branches end
incipient pinch-held
whereas now is all piles and
in the unnerving middle of it.