"How the bits of apple dream"
between grassblades. The sun pends. Horizon. Weighs down the mirror. The eye reflects. Just before the snow. Ember death. Chicory breath. We pant. And run. Beat feet. Temperature drops. Into dark. Flashlights. Riffle between trees. Run, little boy. My legs sore. Run. Through shouts. Hoots. Howls. Mouths rise. So the mist. Glowing. Static strands. Grow. Off grass. Huddle. Into clouds. Breast pressed. To ground. The apples fly.
fall trees
our leafless bones
chime in the wind
You’re not liked, my boy. The ladder. Up. Over the side. Behind a pine. Macintosh in sweat. In palm. Launch back. Fire. The slam. Against nape. Against chin. Against socket. The atoms. Collide with spit. Seeds mumble in flight. You’re alive. The pain. The blood expands. Thinks. Outside the mind. Run the field. The open stretch. Run, run. Pelted by fruit. Others won’t eat.
tree lowers womb
to passing hand
the apple renewed
I fall. Always fall. Pulled from behind. Someone’s legs. Under me. My butt. A bounce on bone. Knee. Cap tears through flesh. Then ambulance. Sirens. The quell. The “not me, I’m okay” Vultures here. The carcass. Vanished. Held down – our throwing arms. A moment. But we played. Our incisors. Accepted the bite. Apples. Youth. Rot with rhythm of the clockhands. Hands always reaching:
an apple
a green tick in time
on the clock of wrinkles
© 2007 Hephaestes
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