into parts. i want to do longer poems. too long to spend writing up at once. this will be a three part series.
If i could come back from the dead, i would come back
for an apple, and just for the first bite, the first
break, and the cold sweet grain
against the roof of the mouth, as plain
and clear as water.
some apple names are almost forgotten
and the apples themselves are gone. The smokehouse,
winesap and York imperial, the striped
summer rambo and the winter banana, the little
Rome with its squat rotunda and the pound apple
that pulled the boughs to the ground.
The sheep's nose with its three-pointed snout,
the blue Pearmian, speckled and sugared.
Grime's golden, cortland, and stamen.
If an apple's called "delicious," it's not.
Water has no substance
and soil has no shell,
sun is all process
and rain cannot rise.
The apple's core carries
a birth and a poison.
stem and skin, and flesh,
and seed, the apple's name,
no matter, is work
and the work of death.
If you wait for the apple, you wait
for one ripe moment. and should
you sleep, or should you dream, or
should you stare too hard in the daylight
or come into the dark to see
what can't be seen, you will drop
from the edge, going over into
coarse, or rot, or damping off.
you will wake to yourself, regretful,
in a grove of papery leaves.