Apple-cheeked son
Perfect is the poem until the book is cracked,
meaning, structure and value imposed from without;
shut even for a moment and it returns
to its original apple-bright perfection –
unassailable unity, aptness and utility,
where it has no value; doesn’t mean a thing.
But seized and probed, quoted and exploited,
read assiduously between the lines,
its meaningless perfection is (only) seemingly
destroyed by the critical reader’s
inherent self-serving needs and fantasies,
leaving the poem then to wither like fruit
carelessly tossed
aside in the pristine, original
garden state of non-attachment.
O child of God, you are also the long lost
apple-cheeked son of Adam and Eve.
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