the worm in the apple is the knowledge
that once, for a time, you worshipped me
how that set me apart, made me less real
more a mirage in the mind of a sad man
who’d had a great deal to drink, the mirror
of me worshipping you, an imaginary man
sitting across from me, distanced from me
by the white tablecloth, the green bottle
wine we’d both drunk to the lees — lees
that now unsettle me, a fibrous sediment
damp, dark red, smelling of fruit, of trees
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