The apple on the table is only that, an apple.
And the table, not table-like, but simply table.
Similarly, the heart's stories, frail tales
told in words of blood and oxygen,
are only what they are, clandestine explorations
of night and day and all
gradations in between.
Much later, when the apple's long gone
and so are we
and the table decays, the stories
remain. For a while. Although containing
neither morphine or miracles, they nonetheless
help those who hear them
Eventually, after decades
of downpours and sleet, the stories
and their new listeners
In the end, more men and women than before
find in grimness a new kind of hope.
Watching the crime-rate sink daily, they listen at night
to blood-curdling screams
as, one by one, the gods, hiding
in the last minds to cry out for them,