Every Apple

Blind as an apple
that only wants to sleep
at the end of its branch,
has no idea what it contains
or that wasps will soon
frenzy over it on the ground,
its skin split, its wine-
vinegar insides browning
in the sun and the air.
It doesn’t know that
even this is not
the end, its seeds
passing through
some creature —
a squirrel, maybe,
drunk and fending off wasp
stings — so that everything
can begin again, as it always
has, as it always will, from
first apple to last apple,
every apple in between.

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