Cezanne’s Pears, Framed In Fire
One day the sun will consume the earth. There is precious little we might do to avoid this end. And because I am eating a pear, my thoughts on the matter are colored by pears. The world as overripe flesh, or under ripe. I defer to the cosmic palate. My knife slices sliver after sliver of glistening meat from the curved, russeted body. The juice, heavy with the light of day, drips from my chin. Can you feel that? Countless ants have shifted their attention. The earth’s skin is riddled with their pleasure. The sun knows this and grows warmer. The hills high above us shine.
the cicada gives up
on lifting his leg