They go to the Apple

Under a tree’s soft ambiance in my backyard,
you lend your body to impossible foreplay,
move like gradual back pain,
spread time across a fresh roll.
Your lust, bigger than you,
steals as one into sweet skin,
penetrates the heart.
You treat your palate,
taste hidden seeds,
would die or live another day by this feast.
You bury yourself; embody what you’re after.
Your spoil is your crisp triumph.
 
Worms are not taught to teach.
No one brings them apples.

Yolanda Calderon-Horn