The chased apple leads to the end
of the chase, and still, what you know
is you want it. Look at an apple
and you feel it in your hand, hold it
and know its taste, the end of summer.
Green of the weeds that split the street,
a color that cuts and pulls away.
Bowl of fruit, bowl of ridiculous fruit
ridiculous for how we place them all
together in the illusion of family,
apple on banana on orange,
all in a basket, maybe one green apple
that has tumbled free. For centuries
we try to get this right, and it becomes
a message: look at this fruit in front
of me, use my eyes, let all else drop
and hold onto that mouthful of nothing.