do you remember that apple orchard?
that nameless field, unfenced, untended,
enticed us with indefinite harvest.
you laid your blanket down,
apples fermenting on the ground.
“love” was a bruised apple we threw to the worms with hope- digest this history,
break these sugars into simpler parts so our roots may find the magic of chemistry, we
the weeds of the manicured world, poet and coyote,
dwelling on faint essences of wild authenticity, we
left without mapping the place,
we left spitting seeds,
dream seeds swept from our hopeful mouths
decaying on the sands of empty broken bottles and eroded brake pads.
had we been inclined to tend seeds in rows and lines,
and named that orchard, defining the finite
had we pinned it neatly between degrees of the heart,
would, at least, the memory of we
itching to be
what is, is,