I’m sorry for the afternoon,
which was late and now won’t ever
be coming back. And I’m sorry
for this fibrous heart I’ll tear
from the tree before it’s ripe,
that I’ll pull apart at the kitchen
sink. Here’s the knife I was given
and which I’ll use to hack time’s
signature green fibers into shreds
—For I was trained to use all
parts delivered into my hands:
from the woody rind to the pulp
to the seed’s thin sheath; and
at last the seed itself.
In response to Via Negativa: Dictator.