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Poetry

In Preparation for Apple Picking

To hear only my voice under the breadth of clouds at once inside and overcome.

In planting flowers she waited, longed, crept beneath branches folding upon her hands and arms and eyes.

Without such sympathy, there is no way to know the fruit of the apple from the apple itself.

Before eating, be still and ready.

Grass begins to die as soon as your foot hits the ground.

Tractors mill loamy dirt, seed and ash.

Before eating, be greedy.

Under the skin is where it really is.

She told someone her secrets, walked as if in love.

Worms walk like ants.

No way to follow the sight of the sound of nothing as it dangles.

Before eating be humble.

Before ice a memory of how you felt and how you remained.

Because I cannot let go.

Before eating be almost still with greed– almost alive, almost dead in compost so clear you can see the heavens and hells.

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