Is it neglect that knots
the fruit of old apple and pear trees,
studs sweetness with hard spots?
Or are the people who planted them,
stabbed them with grafts, still working
branches, warping them with windy hands,
so we’ll know how it is to age?
And is the barn suffering from disuse,
or was it a cane or shoe heels tapping
the rooftop, some couple lying
in their grave, their dream of dancing,
that poked through tin, so we’d have to
patch it? So I’d have to stand inside
staring at the spot of sun while my love
worked up there with a bucket of tar,
watching as the brilliant
was blacked out?