A birthday poem: On Turning Thirty-Two (although I’m thirty-six today)

On Turning Thirty-Two


On Turning Thirty-Two


I sliced the apple, in the middle

the heart of the world,

and the heart of the apple

was without sin.


The cat mewed, in some invisible

distress.  I spilled

some coffee on the floor

as I poured it.

But the cat forgot,

and I wiped up the coffee.


I considered the apple.

The man in the next room


The fragrance was sharp,

the flesh was white,

and all was well.

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