Tapas and drinks with Miguel Algarín
in a shadowed spot off North. Waiters
twirled about, foodie dervishes.
Conversation flowed a Mississippi,
a Nile, a Seine, and when cheese
that piqued the tongue was gone,
we ordered sweets—a pear tart
sculpture served with ice cream,
a single dappled scoop.
I thought then of Gerard, how he'd
sing the praises of this dish,
this canvas of spottedness,
kin to wing, horse, sparrow's egg.
He saw in dull disorderedness
a sign of greatest order,
would have let the sugary cold
slide in his mouth
as joy kneeled on his tongue.