WE MEET INSIDE the apple, tell each other stories
in its house where small blackbirds ripen
and wait for a tree that will turn with
the earth; which we’ll recite and drink,
because we are thirsty: a whole ocean
is silent within us like the fruit itself
is silent inside the apple, as silence in stillness
is silent and enquires; and with its yes
inside it wears white like a bride. We are the ones
who shop in the centre of town. After breakfast
the window is a shelf. We get up, we put
things away. We are the ones. We are not.