Carried on the side of your knife like the good part of an apple
traveling to the picker’s mouth. You are one ear. I carry you like a key.
The key locks curtained rooms. Resting, scrutinized, the witnesses to the dream
before the dream wakes up. Pushers and healers. The heart is a fruit of the push.
We circled that orchard like a fenced field. We picked the good fruit from the ground.