I’ve come to pick bright, fleshy, and red
apples sprung right from my head.
Then leave them out in rays to dry,
sliced slim just to resemble my
whirlpool of thought and raging tide
rise low and high, salt changed to pride,
but come such steady frequency
it’s unfeasible to discern one wave from me.
So rise and fall, as chest with breath,
we flow in unison at best
so chance to come that might emerge
a treasure from deep marine dirge
which pulses (hums in undertows)
beneath the surface then mutely moans
and weeps just for to be revealed
since it had not been prior peeled
but cut in pieces, and out to bake
and crisp and rot, then recreate
and settle, mingle in ancient dust,
becoming one with mantle, crust.
Then springing over once quite refreshed,
polished, perfected, a plumpy mess.