Again, it’s that time of the year
When the roads are paved with apples.
Yellow and red oxidized chaos,
Smelling wet and rotten sweetly.
Again, crushing them with my feet,
When I could’ve been eating them,
Apples. Now they aren’t for me,
Mushy brown and rotting sweetly.
Perhaps, when it’s this time next year
I’ll be able to catch the apples
Right into the hem of my dress
In time, before they rot sweetly.
Hurry up, sit yourself down
Onto this chair that smells like
A rotting tree trunk that got
Taken down by a storm and
Nobody was there to hear.
Only worms and termites saw.
Shut your mouth now and resume
Inhaling the dusty spores
That will take root in our lungs.
Not a doubt, they will take hold
And will eat because you could.
Only worms and termites know.
He flicked the light switch on
But failed to see anything new.
Like a careless answer
That can only lead to more questions,
His being here yields no clarity.
Luminance is not what he should blame.
Forget the niceties
And note the following:
While you are tightly packed
Like sardines in a can,
Witnessing the gradual
(But sure) disintegration
Of one another’s faces,
You don’t stop for a second
To recall what it was like
To realize that you’re caught.
Which makes sense because you’re not
The one steering this piece of…
But rather are taken
To the most logical
Resolution. Of course
Such is the mechanism.
How can I write about love
When the seagulls are circling this dirty patch of the shore,
Hovering above what looks like the carcass of a dove?
They circle but don’t soar.
How can you think about her
When the wind won’t stop blowing all the dust into your eyes,
When you would rather go than look upon that naked bird?
Better blind than hearing cries.
How can we dream about rain
When once hits, it always burns our precious bits of flesh?
When rain has been informed that we won’t leave and need no chains,
We always think it’s fresh.
How can she talk about breath
This easily, as if she’s ever known this rancid air?
As if she can relate…
As if she’s guessed it’s there.