Dust jacket,

The soul of purpose is there...but it drops.
The soul of infinite floating birds and things is there...

But it drops.

Every book's dust jacket you look in, every watercolor of a bird you look at--
They're unified by their constancy.
It is a word for a thing.

And the hammock of a shoulder carried it as a baby.
And the brow consternated to bear it.

And I remember you when your twin and sugar slept.

And the soul of purpose is there.

Bad fruit.

For Jeanette Winterson, obviously.



Apples just don't taste like they used to.

Not
Like they did in the
Scriptures.

I mean, aloof.

Like when, impardoned,  a wanter needed something very specific.