the apple

you cut gently
into the red apple
still wet from
the sink,
the sharp knife
holding the overhead
kitchen light,
and a part of you,
moving. you push
into the bright
slice and cut it
into quarters,
taking out the stem,
the seeds. you
take it out on a
plate to
the back porch,
to where the sun has
risen and warmed
the step where you
will sit. your day
is another apple,
unbitten,
you begin to eat.