Lorca wrote a poem, apples bruising the fields.
Like Heaney’s blackberries.
I walked away from you, apples for sale at the market
Ornaments from the mystery of trees
Chosen from the new orchards they planted that morning
Having been reached-for, glimmering.
The end of a season pacing in the wind in the trees
Circles of sweetness spun from air, never taking foot
The feeling that things were visible elsewhere.