A Sincere Distrust of Figs
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.
Copyright ©
Jaymee Thomas
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