After many sleight-of-hand days the sun squares itself on the white walls. Tart is what your tongue says against the slice you lay across it. Sweet say your molars. This apple grown from graft. Open the myth starred in every core—shiny useless things.

Our stem tale sutured.
Where your limb would be,
I find my violent pleasure.

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I learned that edible apples cannot grow from apple seeds: a branch from a fruit-producing tree must be [grafted] onto another tree—then, voila—apples to eat. The poem began as an imitation of Sarah Gambito's poem, "A Black Horse Has Come To Your Sleep," in [Matadora]; eventually it transformed into its own fruit-bearing poem.