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A single pear in its ripeness this morning swollen ripe,its texture rough rouged,more demanding upon the eye than the treebranching about it.More demanding than the ornate grouping limbsof a hundred perfect trees.Yet flawed, marked as with a fingernail,a bird’s jabbing beak, the bruise of rot,benign as a birth mark, a family blemish.Still, its solitary stubbornContinue reading “That”