Still
Life With Apples
Cezanne would ignore the grain
Omit the quarter moon
Flute burned quarter inch deep
Would pay only scant
Attention to your recollection
Of the barn in Armada
Rinsed to a rumor of red
Listen politely
As you paint for him
A picture of the man who ran
The orphanage
Bedsteads and wardrobes and sideboards
Roll top desks
Stirring at the groan of the hasp
The report of the bolt
Blinking awake in morning light
Steal glances
At his watch while you play both parts
In a retelling of epic horse trading
His eyebrows frantic to escape gravity
Your own straining
To lift off and boomerang around
The circumference of the table
Lighting on the ordinal points of countless dinners
Apples
In the mind’s eye of the artist already
Flocking like birds
To defy gravity
On the dizzy oval of oak.
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