Apples

No shade of waxy red

or soft white mealy flesh;

nothing simple—as what tempted Eve.

I crave a rarer kind:

small and bitter and hard to get—

not crab, neither gala, nor golden

but those of wild occasion:

musky ones in bloom of spring

or cool as autumn dew;

those that rise and fall the swallow,

not duds fell to the ground.

Seething with speech to defy the tree,

I want the fruit with singing taste,

grown in the throats of men.