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Oct 2014
The apple is gone.
It departed today in the wake
of Gonzalo’s sting.

The sting in the tail
of a hurricane that
should never have touched our shores.

And so the symbol
of tenacious life
no longer bears witness
to my own tenacity:
my own survival in an
irresolute world
now seeks another yardstick
on which to pin a shaky faith.
This is the sequel to my poem The Last Apple.
Joseph Sinclair
Written by
Joseph Sinclair  London, England
(London, England)   
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