Apple

Its cut-open center shows a darkly outlined
Double aura. Poking out of that is a seed, a small
Love point, a repetition
Of the pattern of sex.

This apple is symmetrical, with a neat curved stem.
The waxed outside is the bright infertile green
Of artificial grass, the flesh
Bland, blank, cells pressed so close
Their edges have merged.

But still, again and again, on all things growing, that
 pattern.

She stands naked in her garden, her red hair
Down over her shoulders, her freckled hand
Extended. Adam, she says...
Birds shift in the tree, turn
Their blue and scarlet tails under, leaves incline,
Each one spills a drop of moisture,
The small wind pauses, makes a bubble of stillness around
Her body, his body,
The apple green globe sits on her palm,
All the light of steamy Paradise collects around it.
Adam bends his head. It's his world's perfume he's
Breathing in. It's the skin of that world
He sinks his teeth into.