The Prop is Not an Apple

It is not too late to meld splendor with the
Bodies that grow from instruction. Her outlaw,
Common sense. He, underground. “They got it
Wrong, the gods we have.” I can feel your steps
Unravel with the clarity of youth. A blossoming
Of raw beginnings. There is no ordinary along with
All their other oblivions. He doesn’t get a full house.
The statues will recover with menace, forecast:
“We can try again to want less heraldic colors.”