In another minute I’m washing apples—lyric present—in another minute.
In another minute the rags and disguises of me are washed away
as though psyche was nothing more than sand—in another minute—
common sense, another, geese headed north,
words stacked like fire wood, another minute
I wash apples—and summer has grown old
but not like a thing one might touch—lyric present—
in another minute—summer struggling for breath.
My hymnal gleams out of reach on a high shelf.
Planet of the Blind 