The hibiscus I brought from Florida.
The apple from Maine.
I write you from a desk.
The desk could be from Ohio,
many desks are.
Perhaps we should ask it
before I write any more
but before I do the hibiscus
will interrupt the apple, saying
I’m from Brazil, and the apple will say
No you’re not, you’re from nowhere, and
the apple will say I have seen adventures
on the river, bold-faced and grand, and
the hibiscus will say I am the most gesture of love
offered in longing to the last of the Chiki girls,
beware of what is possible with me, and what
without me, is not
the desk, filled with papers and pens, listens, and remains
silent, because of course desks don’t talk about themselves,
which is not uncommon in Ohio, for anyone, and even less so
for those whose mouths are works of fiction, and can only speak,
if they do, the mostly deliciously wrong things, which I cannot
even begin to write–as I eat this delicious apple–to you.
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