I found my tongue tracing
a man's patient lips.
He was hungry for my poetry.
I could not tell him
I've no language
here, in dreams
so I fed him the fruit
from my branches.
His eyes held firm to mine
as he ate like a timid beast
from my hands.
He asked to nibble my seeds.
Rosy cheeked, I obliged.
He thinks I am rooted in poetry
yet he does not know he is every apple's core.
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