Spring 1994 • Vol. XVI No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1994 |

Apple Colloquies

1. The youngest apple unmistakably rested on my desk, an extension of the ego made flat and cut to a working size. She had been delivered anonymously to the schoolroom for adoption, but I pretended to have lost my teeth offstage, where the fatal action originates. No luck. Into the hole went the projected desire, another missing. The apple concocts its containing mirage as the shape of a foot the shoe, or the shape of a face the hands that cup it like a supplication. 2. It was as if the sun had encouraged the sundial to rain down beams on the two of us standing there between imposing bookends, a twisted bronze woman mounted on the slab, her words across the forehead of the library, as on a headband. They were remote stone, not the writers who answered to them but the cuneiform of chisels and handed-down admirations. We were dumb fruit already eaten but given the look of life by a skilled mortician, and then and there I exposed the counterfeit wound. The fake teeth marks

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Churches

By Michael Klein

1. The youngest apple unmistakably rested on my desk, an extension of the ego made flat and cut to a working size. She had been delivered anonymously to the schoolroom […]

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