In Wenatchee famous apples
still wink like ornaments
Green-gold, light lime, and fire
dripping down the branch
They walked along the mountainside,
with rafts above their hats
Until they found
a river
And what is that,
a river?
Free ticket
to the sea
For we cross land
most all the time,
Write “fuck”in ballpoint cursive,
when opportunity attacks
The strength of
any river,
Casts murky doubt, desire
toward the grassy bank.
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