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.