Dropping it together
By David Krump
This is the falling apple. This is same poem where the
Bouncing parts bounce apart and the orchard
Columns extend again. For a metaphor:
This hot tea has this connection to
Connected bones. The heart isn't connected
Nearby. I'd argue
Maybe this apple, but the breeze doesn't
Blow like that. Often, it blows flat
Like the occuloid moon
Cannily opposite that thin sun.
Landino Landini played blind flute over a lachrymatory
For his wife. He wept for her death, before her death.
This is how you'll feel when you accidentally glimpse the lapwing
Grieving over a nest of shattered wet eggs. Except
Women outlive men, which is why the lachrymatory lapsus and
Part the relation between crying and snakeskin. Think of
The green apple sheds, sort of, where we parked the small
Orchard tractors, and bushel sack bottoms thumped ripe drunk
Honeycrisps and triumphant purplish Sawyers
Into soft wooden bins. A good picker can average almost
Two bushels an hour. At six and a dime a bushel
Ten hours a day in an apple tree
Won't stop the tears from collecting
Somewhere deep: in an ornate lung or something like it.
Landino Landini was blind from birth.
He said he'd have died content to have given her
My sick joke is his eyes made no tears.
On a cedar wall
Upstairs in the cider shed
For the summer
Micah and I hung a picture of Judy Garland
Asleep in the poppies, the Emerald City so close.
I fell in love with her lips, like something from a poem. Just
Seventeen years old, I kissed my first picture of a dead woman.
At nineteen, Mother
Theresa, I did it again.
There was no relation, really. There was
A difference which meant that both times
I imagined myself an apple tree gargoyle
Perched well, in the three gray camouflage of
Moon leaf, I became part of the tree and the
Sugar shore bees were stinging the dropped apple
Blues from my stone bark. Out of August, slow midnight
Spreads warm around languid, still
Apple ladders in a shed.
Friends lead to valleys of poppies. [↑]
Corrections and Notices
Often they will worry for you. You don't eat enough, you
Sleep on too many couches, you are struck stupid by rural
Wind chimes. Once, you sang like a bagpipe through
Porch wind and random clings from small metal tubes.
When you finished the puzzle, it was just lovely and truly
Immovable. When dinner came, you used it as your oversized
Placemat and spilled asparagus soup on it. You don't like asparagus soup
And you drink too much coffee.
When anyone notices your coffee use, you, for quite
Unclear reasons, reply that Van Gogh was, at one time, your
Best friend, and that he, quote, subsisted for nearly two
Weeks on twenty-seven cups of coffee, one bit of bread
And an infatuation with the chairwoman's hips. They most
Often respond by reminding you that Van Gogh's last meal
Was coffee and a thought that just might kill you too.
You uniquely insist your feet are firmly on the soil
By clicking your heels awfully high in the air. There remain
Few apples in Oz these days.
A late freeze might extend the apple season (it goes
Every year) through early October. All late freezes
Don't exist. September always sends you back to the corn, where
You'll dream of picking peaches sometime, hell, just for a summer
Like perennial love, which grows from the roots of the words
I wonder for you and I'd love to winter with you. You'll run
Out of apples, mid-week, and into love, by Friday. A mockingbird
Will plagiarize your song too. This will relate to stolen bird songs
Which is why we first whistled I'd love to winter with you. As real
As coffee, you could imply, suggesting that
The flat face of the fat moon was never so big as now.
With enough mirrors, you can watch yourself grow old, but not up, not in trees, ever. [↑]
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