Perfection (& Medlar)

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Two bags of medlar
Hang in the hallway
Where heat from the wood fire
Is fanned on them
Past them
To bedroom, bathroom
And the far corners
Of our cracked and creaking house

One bag is full of perfection
The other bag is full of blemish
They hang there
Ripening
Each fruit
In its own skin

We eat blemish first
Making our way to perfection
But, lo and behold
When perfection is arrived at
We find that it too
Has the likeness of a bunghole

11-18-14

Previously published in
The Swineherd’s Journal

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