The Confession Of An Apricot

I love incorrectly.

There is a solemnity in hands,

the way a palm will curve

in accordance with a contour of skin,

the way it will release a story.

This should be a pilgrimage.

The touching of a source.

This is what sanctifies.

This pleading. This mercy.

I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,

close to the inaccuracies, the astringent

dislikes, the wayward peace, the private

words. I want to be close to the telling.

I want to feel everyone whisper.

After the blossoming I hang.

The encyclical that has come

through the branches

instructs us to root, to become

the design encapsulated within.

Flesh helping stone turn tree.

I do not want to hold life

at my extremities, see it prepare

itself for my own perpetuation.

I want to touch and be touched

by things similar in the world.

I want to know a few secular days

of perfection. Late in this one great season

the diffused morning light

hides the horizon of sea. Everything

the color of slate, a soft tablet

to press a philosophy to.

... The Confession Of An Apricot, Carl Adamshick