A gather of apricots fruit pickers left
gleam like reasons for light going higher, higher;
I look half as hard as I can to tease

All love is merely fear of apprehension.
You love the antic magician but fear his wand.
You ate an apple contrary to instruction.

I was apprenticed young,
    A shut-in with no sense
    Of sunlight or clear sky

I, Gelimer, on a hill in Africa, 
Recently come to my senses, although it is late. 
At the end of my kingdom and my years,  

Saturday noon: the morning of the mind 
Moves through a mist to breakfast: damp from sleep, 
Rustic and rude, the partial self comes down 

The seed of their trouble also began in an apple;
That, knowing good and evil, posed for them a choice
                                                     between goods.

They said, my saints, my slogan-sayers sang,
Be good, my child, in spite of all alarm.
They stood, my fathers, tall in a row and said,

Above the dog-eye-colored land
And town of San José
Of hot dog-fur and tin,

Corridors of the city
End in a deer’s eye.
The deer stumbles among legs

The children have packed up the light
And gone home for the bedtime story
In which Jack wakes the Sleeping Fury.