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II. The Pear

St John, David

Tears are like luck, they come last To those who most deserve them

The powdered china of your body, Its porcelain sheen in the streaked pulse

Of scalding moonlight. Smoke rises, Pumping above the city's black towers;

Yet as the tea of the night's ghosts Seeps into your limp hands, already

The fortune told by its leaves begins Honing itself into a tiny locket

Shaped not like a heart but like that one Miniature pear we saw on the Ponte Vecchio,

Carved of marble, the top of a thumb: White as fear: petrified pearl

Fallen, stunted tear of the goddess.