About an Apple
Jim Davis

I call home about an apple and we are green together,
we are bold strokes of paint, we are safari roast

coffee. Tembo. Mamba. Buttery pastry spirals
to symbolize the mouth, mistaken in the foreground

for cornucopial moon. Smoke from stone ovens.
Thick claws click on thinstone tile

as a golden bear comes pawing down the hallway,
muzzle in the air, hungry after the honey drizzled

between croissant sheets. Embraced
in a big bear hug this beast and I
evolve into a single vagrant, massive
by European standards. Espresso whistles, barista calls

a name near mine. Cézanne, he says to me, See?
It was here all along – you only went looking

when hunger got the best of you, as one tends to.
I do, master, I do. Though to this day I fear

that since I’ve smashed my mind so many times
into the pillars of Rome, until my hairline, gummed and dry,

thins to a wisp, and the color of language is lost.
I sit unsettled in a seat beside a man with Magellan

elbows that spill into my lap. A feather lapel, a top hat,

one eye distorted through the pain of an hourglass.

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