Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

October 04, 2008


I lift each apple
from the tree,
stack my basket
carefully; cart
them indoors.

I watch each apple-
scape for scars,
blow the spiders
from the stars; wrap
them in dry twists --

the paper method of preserving
losses lost, and lusts forgotten:
the over-wintered sugar of fruit.

Posted by Delire at October 4, 2008 07:43 AM
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