Wooden Fruits

The improvised songs,
Boiled kettles,
Lazy Sundays in bed
With the biscuit sweats
And papers,

That painting
By the wardrobe
Of Adam and Eve
Pre-apple,

The kind of love
That closed doors
And found islands,

It was all there
Lined up
And ready
To be shot at.

They were sold
On make believe.

Young love
Is wasted on the old.

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