There are no apples left for picking,
only leaves caught up in the sunlight
and a slow breeze passing through.
Back between my molars sticks a pip
that my tongue cannot pry loose
no matter the shapes it twists,
the times it risks my bite.
A sparrow in the branches sings,
tells me there are more trees,
but they are behind walls, and gates,
and men with bright black guns.
They tell people which trees are good,
which ones are bad.
It doesn’t matter about the apples so much,
it’s more about the hands.