Perfect is the poem until the book is cracked,
meaning and structure imposed from without;
eyes taken off even for a moment
and it returns to its original
apple-bright, closed-cover perfection,
where, composed of unassailable unity,
aptness and utility, it doesn't mean a thing.
But seized and probed, quoted and exploited,
read assiduously between the lines,
its perfection is seemingly destroyed
by the critical reader's inherent
self-serving fantasy, leaving it to rot
like carelessly bitten fruit tossed aside
in the original garden state of non-attachment.
O child of God, you are also
the apple-cheeked son of Adam and Eve.