Meditations on an Apple | America Magazine


    Candle body, stem wick,
    always hinting at flame.

    If not for my eyes there is
    no red, only red’s potential.
    Thus no apple shape or size
    at all.

    Whether you’re pie or cider
    some of you will be human
    and some in the sewer.

    Your name was a freighted net
    catching all kinds of fruit
    till the others left
    and you were left.

    What is it with us wanting you
    in particular to have been
    forbidden?

    Something will eat you rotten
    if I don’t ripe.

    A million trees led up to one
    little you, in whom perhaps there
    hide a hundred million more
    or none.



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