The eating of the pear
remains of summer
where I may pray
by speaking to the dead.

The pear replies
with juice and terrible
sweetness.
The dead retort
with their customary
silence.

Except some dreams
permit them words
while pears in dreams
stay tasteless.

My journal nightly
speaks dear to those
I remember best
within my genes:
My father's voice
sometimes comes between
my lips and tongue.
My mother's eyes
sometimes confuse
the mist of morning mirror.

The other dead must
depend on the fragility
of patterns sewn loosely
in the contexts of my brain.
It seems that memory
reweaves itself
from daylight and
those transitory fibers
of my sleep.

The pear decides to share
its wealth by oozing
sweetness to my hand.

The dead cannot decide,
their sweetness lost
to unfathomed taste
like the savor of
the fog that wakes
me morning.