Lindon Cannery, November 12, 1982

These are apples picked by the pure 
In heart, end of the harvest apples, 
Juice apples — but apples. 
And if a worm, or mold or frost 
Took three-fourths of an apple 
To itself, that still leaves 
A quarter of an apple. And the least 
Of these will feed the least of us. 

What started out with a conveyer bang 
Has settled down to a run and rumble. 
Hair-hidden handmaids pick 
Through pocked and puckered apples. 
Apples . . . apples . . . and apples. 

Cans drop consistently with a clank 
And tinny tick to catch the spray 
Of the juice of apples. Sometimes 
They miss — I consent to the baptism. 
Sprinkled in juice, my faith is made 
Whole: One’s thirst can never be 
Quenched by apples; the acid 
From the juice will burn on one’s lips. 

Through the window I watch a sea gull 
And mistake it for a dove. It lights 
Upon a pole: A solitary Christ, 
Arms spread through November’s Lindon, 
Asks for water and is given— apples.