Some things tell us what they are not,
like the pear, pregnant with gravity,
its fallen stomach nothing like a plum
or apple, its greenness surrendering hard
to sweetness, its meat bespeaking sand,
cannot roll off the table without effort.
in the palm with handy ease,
the pretense of escape
showing on its neck.
Nothing special, nothing easy
in its swaying on the tree
whose limbs are not hung heavy
with a sleeping snake
as though posed for Audubon,
waiting for something better
Only a pear
heavy and content,
as though about to drip from the tree.