The Pinnacle of the Pineapple

That poem about the pineapple, the one About the mind as never satisfied. . ..

—Wallace Stevens, "As You Leave the Room"

We biked it home in your panniera small diamond scale fruithaving left its tribe from a small islandto become an object of desirewith its green defensive bladesdown from its single bearing treepriced and worthyroads, waterways, flights to make its journeya pilgrim from the sun of a place it will never return.We kept it under watch on an opal, octagonal plattera distinctive scent of vanilla it spread into the night kitchenthe oracle of its studded sides you pulled onto feel the softening of its corethe tease of its savor to reach its apexright before it may clabber its expectationsmusk and mush betrayed of its own flesha fruit, male or female,whose decapitated head could bush back from the ground.