POETRY

The remains of my apple pie

by Daniel Wright

The plate is the kind of chaos
you could read the future in.
The bits of crust mirror human lives
sweeping through the splatter of fruit
and the strange red stain
that was always on the plate must signify
some original sin.

Yarrow-stalks and tortoise-shells
cannot construct
so close a companion
to the undivine disorder
of a world passed through.

And this is the solemnest thing:
the K&W, for all their bustle
and assembly-line precision, deliver
a shitty apple pie.