The City 

He has picked apples on the yellow road to the city.  
In the yellow water under the bridge to the city  
the apples cast a bloody halo  
as he bends to drink his reflection.  
 
He has picked apples 
and left them in a pile below the window -  
the window that overlooks the river  
and the square of pastel bricks.  
 
The river is why she still lives there, 
and why she has filled the window with many shapes of green -  
tendrils and leaves and a hanging piece of stained glass  
that also carries a drop of red.  
 
There’s a golden light on the city - open your doors, semi-strangers,  
wear it in your windows, remember it from before.  
There are apples on your doorsteps  
and piled at the feet of brick walls.  
 
There are asparagus shoots shaped like steeples 
and lemons shaped like the world 
that wrap the sun-swollen world around them in their rinds.  
 
There are mirrors that interpret dusty rooms 
and slow fish tanning  
where the river meets the stone steps.  
 
Everywhere you look there are omens, 
all of them sun-filled and flesh-born and humming.  
They are rotting in the doorways.  
They are waiting for you to lie down with them.