All afternoon
we’ve been coring apples
with the conviction of inmates.

A train sings somewhere close,
steps off the tracks & lands
in my palm. The apples spill

like people out of taxis – red-faced
& round. My hand is too small
to hold you. Or the train.

We’re fragile as jellyfish,
as little boys who mock
the creatures in their glass tanks.

Today the apples are animal hearts
& we carve them.
Your hands are sticky.

Your hands touch my face.
Your hands threaten to destroy
an adequate day & make it

transcendent. The sky seeps with light.
I’ve been here before, but before
it was dark & here we are,

stung
in the morning.