The apples are handsome and Pre-Cambrian with their foliage draping the canopy
with apple breath and shadow. An Orchard of Arias, hours from a glass of hard cider.
Cinder mittens on it’s oaky nose; as Autumn recalibrates the haste of fire…
The house slides into a sunset on a cinnamon bun.

I lean back in my chair and write this.



II


There was a God in my Breakfast. Gnawing at my Animus.
Spooking mirrors with my own face. And kissing my feet.

I knew it time for muffins, with Blueberries In
and a glass of cold milk from a Sacred Cow.

I slept through the Preamble of my Eminence
too enthrall of Another, and the Songs that kept track of it.

comet locked to inexplicable Love
feasting on the marrow of Sunshine
and Fuji.