The First Fire of the Season
does not have the requisite sensuousness
to have been the fruit that tempted Eve, fooled Adam
and made a mess of things thereafter.
Likewise, a lonely man doesn’t stand at the edge of the ocean with his pants hiked up
contemplating his whole life as a series of missed opportunities in amour and figure it in metaphor as
But let it never be said that an apple doesn’t have a charm of its own.
For no other fruit echoes a season in the senses like an apple echoes the fall.
Taste it in the most tropical of climes at the peak of summer’s heat
and you might as well be stepping down from a hayride,
the snap of first frost around the corner,
the crunch of red leaves under your feet and
the smell of summer’s best wood coming out of a chimney that’s been waiting all year for
the first fire of the season.
Long Shot Love
Pushing the limits of the long shot–
That is my day, that is my race;
The last horse to qualify
On the last turn
In the last place.
That is why you love me;
You for whom self-deprecation
Can only be an aphrodisiac if it’s at least half-true,
And for whom last place is first
In her heart.
Not to catch but to know the mystery
of the green