a round red apple in halves, quarters, eighths—
god pares you down.
slice, sliver; shake, shiver,
three hundred men lapped from a stream.
he skins your heart,
but leaves the core.
three hundred cores,
thousands of seeds,
millions of voices,
torches of peace.
bury your seeds deep in the ground.
plant the shattered clay.
eat the fruit of victory’s shout,
of night’s retreat into the day.
