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.