Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Long Island

josh said he was making some apple compote tonight and i thought of our yummy quail hill apples nigh on 1.5 years ago! and also running along the trail behind our backyard...

the apples

the apples pressed constructions made of flowers from
the emerging apples we did not mean in that instance
which we were passing to each other in the last section of the
poem not to mean the “atrium” symmetric to the fruit stand
the entirety of it the gap between meaning and running
into it to each other meaning it and the end of a rotation
controlling interests and what the people want
in a bag of apples
in one long line of looking forward to them being gone


poem

the green grass moss
o'er the great green leaves
spotting the forest floor
for a forest - celibate - fakes her waning
under the wood of the story

the cock did not crow
as it crew yesterday

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