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Poem

In every apple, an atom resides; 
in every Adam, an apple abides. 

So it goes and goes, apples 
toppling off tables in rhythmic waves, 

falling through slits, convincing themselves 
they are particles instead.

Whether in a pie or the depths 
of your eye, it remains a life 
enlaced with apples.

Even saws wield charmed abilities  
to see both down and up, felling 

trees born from swallowed seeds 
of time, nestled deeply, inside apples.

Apple begets apple, begets knowing, 
tasting apples sideways and blindfolded, 

shielding your naked red delicious 
from no other than yourself—
	though some claim it was the figs.

Apples in motion deceive, looking 
at you like two when you blink; 

it's wise to check the number of shadows 
before expressing a sly look or disagreeing 
with reality, mattering up the gravity of it all.

Too much energy and not enough ease 
for Adams and atoms in a closed system 

cloaked in apples, lifting their skin 
revealing only what you inquire of them.

The method of questioning determines 
the taste of the pith—whether it dances 

towards you with the hip of a granny smith 
or slides a groove, creating gravy stew. 
	
It depends on you and how you pose 
	the question to the apple.

Slicing knives are apples too, as are hands 
	that grip the handle and the cradle 

of air, in the up-and-down jitterbugging  
of the relentless rhythm of the dropping blade—

all still atoms, as we've covered, which might have been figs.

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