Classical Apples

Classical Apples

Classical Apples

Are you sincere? When wind and light contrive 
to give an impression of one tree clapping? 
At the farmers’ market it’s one twist of the tourniquet 
—on sunlight—before it’s all turnips
 
             Ichor thickened in the flies
  
             The nocturnal encroachment
 
             Nails digging into gardening soap 
 
             with hands wired to carve hearts 
 
             The butterfingers 
 
             The existential potholders 
 
             The word “empty” mistaken for “tempting”
 
             in the speed‑dreaming of the harried mother 
 
             Steps down an auricular staircase 
 
             with a Greek foot’s architrave 
 
             with a saint’s foot’s cornice
 
 
Imported torts is a bit of a misnomer—they buy cakes
—pumpkin, which doesn’t seem to me the sincerest of gourds­—
(Orange, schmorange 
pigeons, eons) 
Here are your unwaxed classical apples, meaning out of reach. 
The creek, a classic finish line, drops the ‑ish, freezes.