Absconding
When I left my job I folded my apron like always, tucked
into my hat. Six months since the supermarket rows–apples
stacked once twisted & picked–I check into a dive hotel
in Chelsea with a room the size of my body but free apples
at the desk. At the ferry, a storm culls the sky like a produce knife.
Rain, rain, passing front, then stars: belligerent dappling apples,
sparkling cider in dark sky over Governor’s Island, Lady Liberty
bright as a promise. Squint long enough & any tree will bear apples
or maybe they’re given us to sample on arrival at the farm
in the sparsely-paved pinelands, Maine, littered with unheard-of apples,
varieties that drip summer when sliced, cry & bleed sugar—
cold mustering a nor’easter backstage for after apple
season, the pond cool enough to sting skin while dragging
the dock from its posts to the boathouse. Andy…
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