Tuesday, January 28, 2014

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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