On Hearing David Eat an Apple Via Telephone

 

Anything becomes a poem. My old friend

Chews lustily speaking of Chekov

 

And I think he’s eating

Lawrence’s “mystic” fruit:

 

an apple

becomes mystic when I taste in it

 

the summer and the snows, the wild welter of earth

and the insistence of the sun…

 

Now after rain, early spring, hop-scotching birds,

avian imperfect, mystic the wild ordinary.

 

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