David Epstein
Not words alone pleased her. —Milton
And when the orchard breathes
its bitter apples back at me,
the rain runs all the ink on your old letters
that I left out, that they might take some sun. Thus
are fictional children born, your terms pouring off your page, swept up in a day
they couldn’t see, watering arugula, peony, and ice. These
days I’m willing to take you into my life as if
you were an orphan underfed of air, a blue child
whose heart doesn’t so much beat as crinkle,
the ink in your veins a fable. Set the scene:
small-town theatre marquis, lights out, gum-spots
on concrete underneath. Full-length glass doors,
locked. They stand seeing their reflections, hands
clasped. Behind them—behind us—not Main Street but
Jonagold, Gala and Rome.
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