This Apple

It was late at night, but I just wanted to go and sit somewhere, and I knew you hadn’t gone far; you would return. I couldn’t let my fatigue excuse my diffidence, the opportunity was there, and I had the key. My throat was tight (or butterflies) and the not knowing what to expect, the having never done it before, was the drama that excited me. The excitement of the day came to sit with me, as I had been that excitement, so excitement was with me. And the fatigue that made the rest fresh, the desire that’s green and sprouting, this apple. I can tell. The stupor had been mine for hours; it was there, and through it was this apple. I can tell I should by rights be drunk, for writing such a poem as this requires no soberness. Or excuses fall away. Which is the relief I desired. The apple has fallen. I went before you returned to find me. or I’ll leave you this, a note. I sat in your room, in the dark, alone.

May 1971