(An ode to the latex coating on apples, rending them allergenic)
His nail scratches away the thin, waxy surface layer of the apple.
On a scale of mites
Where things begin to separate
Damage unseen until it expands
Under the microscope
In that land of many hills,
The sky is only as wide as the few centimeters that have been scratched away.
Thinking ourselves prophets, we imagine the day our sky will open up like the sky of this apple and we will be like the fruit, our flesh exposed and cold against the heavenly air.
Someone interrupts my thought:
Perhaps it’ll start with the land resting upon seven hills!
We imagine ourselves small as a fingernail.
Bored of domination, we reduced ourselves to stargazers.