By Mario Capaldi
Freckled blisters on green apples,
Are perfect imperfections,
Like the contours of your skin.
By the river I drink you in,
Soak up your ripeness,
And taste the bitter of your lips:
You tart fruit; heady liquor.
Beyond the bend in the river,
Where haze meets sky,
I grew my tree.
And in its branches you grew me.
Flower fruit seed,
From my source to your sea,
Waters carry our apples.
Drink deep, drink fast and free.
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