the distance between your hands and the apple

had something to teach you about death. like

how the sun under wood on the way home was trying

to stitch together words like ‘happiness’. 

come here, stand to my attention. i can see

your heart waiting for poets to get back to 

their business of writing about what changes

what stays the same what beats what mellows. 

here it is: forget the tangle of the last rain, the

reluctant dazzle of that september sun. forget the

second winter in a row that has fed up 

all your longing for spring. let’s go and 

retrieve that irretrievable love of light

on the pier; black pen and yellow writing pads;

seedy quartet of the moon in all the

cornered places and beach ferns ecstatic for 

our communal bodies. they symbolise mystery

i suppose, they are so black and sweet. 

forget that we picked so few apples today,

the ones we got tasted mythic.