For Breakfast

For Breakfast

Apple cut on the bias
don’t think I do not love you
even though I know nothing of your tree

I try without too much effort to to follow how you lived

little green nothing bud
filling as if from the center
a balloon with its lips gripping the faucet to gulp water
and earn a new body

Green skin streaked with red

I feel certain that the crisper is a place of dreadful loneliness
I don’t mean to be whimsical
I speak of wrenching from the tree what the sun said to it in intimacy
and eating it with only a little hunger