Diaspora Sonnet 36
An expectant evening of snow like the breath after
a sentence. The opulent clean of a host city
shined like dishes run through the machine—
some days I am almost a man. The year's last
windfall of apples are shined and taken from my bag.
I hand picked each one, twisting them slightly
off branches. I am not from a cold country.
I am not immune to this spectacle of cityscape
and dream. The way the tin light suggests fidelity
to this small room also suggests I will move beyond
this cold America. And the apples on the sill reflect
a shepherded outcome from these windows
They bring little light, the apples. What happens then
after the frosts? Will there be polish from the waxen bite?