I threw the golden apples all at once.
I might have hit her once or twice, but mostly
They landed where I meant them to. She stopped
And picked one up, glistening like the sun
On cutlery. The apple looked good, too.
You think I’m Eve, she said, and passionfruit
A golden bauble wrapped around a core
Of propagation and distraction? Run,
You fleet-foot son of Adam. I got far
Enough to watch her curve around the curve
The highway made, the fruit of all my labor,
Some knowledge maybe—Good, Better, and Gone.
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