Apple-tree

On the roof of my car

Lie apples,

Ripe to pick.

Plinking drops from hanging branch,

Tires brush the yellowed leaves.

The apple falls far from the tree:

Lies in my hands,

Ripe to eat;

Sweet, but still, I stare (not at it)

Beyond the window to empty street.

This apple comes home with me.

I chew sweet flesh,

And spit its seed:

My overgrown garden welcomes it.

So apple grows into a tree,

Far from other apple-trees;

Lonely as an apple can be.

I sit under its soothing canopy

And eat the hanging fruit.