In a blue bowl, a yellow apple
an hourglass of air, a second apple
a brace of plums, a saucy pear,
more rifts of air, a smiling banana.
three brown and hirsute kiwis–
once round, now doubting their roundness
(roundness doubted by us, rather)
and rightly–they’re no longer so round.
See–one apple’s duller–
duller than its fellows, anyhow,
duller than the day it was set there, fresh-scrubbed;
nor does the pear float so saucily.
Not to worry, they’re still wonderful–
delicious in their crenellated way.
Didn’t someone once say ripeness is all?
And uber-ripeness, still better?
Now they’re for painting–a Cezanne?
Now to be cobbled into abstraction,
feed someone’s pathos, fire a soliloquy.
Everything’s changed. In the new light
even the blue’s different–
only the air’s the same.
