The Apple on the Other Tree

Grasping a tall
Flat-nibbed fountain pen
Full of Indian ink
And a reservoir of eyes

His hand, married to the barrel,
One nerve away
From a mind trained on
What can’t be seen,

Flexed the pen, tracing somersaults
And stiff arrows along
The smooth bark of a dangling branch
A lacework of longings

I watched as the nib
Approached the limit,
The gnarly edge of tree and wind,
But the words hadn’t read the rules

They sang themselves
Through the air and,
Like a spider’s silk thread
Gliding on a sunlit evening current,

Landed in a dyslexic funk
Unable to speak clearly
Wobbling in unison
With an apple above

What was he trying to say?
But the apple dressed in red
Took hold of the pen
And words fell away.