The old language
says the apple
is the old apple
and spoke
in categories,
it gave her
the dance floor
she needed, all
those vocabularies
and animal nights
before her. Spotted fur.
Lithe. Taut.
The syllable in apple
and the ecstasy of
naming. Or was it
knowing? Windows
swing open.
The chest
a hammering thing.
I might as well say it.
This hammering
thing, Life, as I’ve
known it, know me,
is over. The apples
are scattered
on ground.
The earth reclaims
its booty right be-
for the eyes. So
swiftly the letters
replace. The
letters dearrange
and uncompose
the self in itself.
Am I in danger,
the orchestral side
is taking away me,
these letters
no longer anchor.