Magritte In the Morning

green apples are time-bound illusions, handcuffs to an ancient art; we share a common ancestor, out on a limb the butterfly doesn't know the scent of ripe papaya or that orchids hang loosely from a primordial sky, we live between this taste swirling in our mouths, hungering for kisses that bring us to our knees, our shadows breathe and the landscape changes, plastic bubbles and empires of light, wondering which pieces of us fit together, the two of us standing close enough, muslin sheets covering our faces, delusions of grandeur.