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Sally Bliumis-Dunn – Ⅲ

In the Orchard 





I am picking but also,


like sometimes happens in a dream,




I am watching the four of us


from a distance, on a hill:




the pears and pear trees suddenly


invisible to me, but not to


the four of us picking. So, what I see




is almost like a dance:




each of us reaching skyward,


in their own quirky rhythm, but




with the same open palm,




fingers slightly curled, and then


the tiny jerk in the hand


as the invisible pear


unlatches from the branch




and the hand returning,


hovering for a moment




over the heart




before it goes to the mouth


or drops the invisible pear




into a common


bag on the ground




which keeps fattening.