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…