I spoke up
come by wind &
lectured the orchards:
what’s needed is
no longer not so much.
they nodded,
called off new
salience, turned
out messy bloom’s
disorder, tore up
its own woods it is. I hid
between
a resonance
of grief and departures,
on
the night sky’s
cored spine width
& so stripped, lived:
one golden apple enough
to keep an eye
left on.
Brian Foley is the author of The Constitution (Black Ocean, 2014).
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