The apple sits on an old examination bed
in the world's foyer.
The stony silence of the men staring hard
crosses the line of sanity.
Why do I think of this,
drowning in the depth of lost time?
Maybe nothing came from anything,
a long drawn-out yawn from nowhere.
Maybe my mother's soul set the apple free,
making it roll down the road.
And I look for the same sense of stillness,
hoping it will heal me.
The myth has its head stuck in the fork of a tree.
And the spirits of knowledge won't let it pass.