Thursday, May 26, 2011
If in fact the apple shadows
The peach on the blue tablecloth
To make it seem riper, does
The empty goblet bend both
Starched napkin white and darkness
From a draped corner of the room
To evoke residue in a chalice
Or lateness in an afternoon?
The apples, green in the silver
Tray, are bronzed, like a bronze pear.
The answer to light is color
And fruit illuminate the air—
But only here inside that frame,
Where apple replaces its name.