Magritte in the Morning

Green apples are time-bound
illusions, handcuffs to an ancient
art; we share a common
ancestor, out on a limb.

A butterfly doesn’t know the scent
of ripe papaya or how the orchid
lives in the sky; we live between
this taste inside our mouths, hungering
for kisses that bring us to our knees.
Our shadows breathe and the
landscape changes, plastic bubbles and
empires of light,

Wondering which pieces of us fit together,
the two of us standing close enough,
muslin sheets covering our faces,
delusions of grandeur.