imagination says
in time everything becomes
something else
an apple
sits by my window
for 300 years
one day a woman
takes a bite and
a flock of birds
takes off
it becomes wine
for a monk or the beginning
of an orchard
its life is yours
but has happened as
if in translation
a few steps
from the vertebrate
before you ever
really got to
eat that
apple.
this apple
might scent your
grandmother’s skin
at her wake
nervously you
memorize your furniture
as if each piece were a
passenger
on some final
voyage west, straight
into the sunset
of your imagination
the corners
we most live
in crumble
alas some places
are too small
for apples.
once in holland
I saw a painting
of an apple
now some nights
I hang myself on the
wall like a painting
and wait
for a power
greater than
sleep to take
me to my
orchard.


