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.