A glad piece of thinly-sliced apple
lay upon a needy plate
& organized a revolution
against its own identity:
I will not decide what makes me up
or carry from this needy plate
so flesh-less a description of
how red I was
before I became so thin a slice,
or a pie of which I'd like to be a part,
so brown & flaky of crust
that apples everywhere
would envy it.
I will be eaten as I am
or, if not eaten then I will brown & rot.
I will make no choice in this matter
or the matters of other apples, be they
sliced or whole.
Don't ask me about tangerines:
I do not speak the language.