the first one fell from a story,
not a branch.
a plot of land hung from its stem,
a deed.
the crunch was not of pulp,
but law,
a line drawn in the loam;
this is mine.
you are fallen.

then,
the second,
from a numbered tree,
a newton’s gravity.
we mapped its arc,
a perfect curve,
and called it truth.
we learned to calculate the fall,
but not the hand that threw.

now,
the final apples are not ripe,
they are forged.
they are hurled with a velocity
that blurs the fruit,
confuses it with a promenade,
a city square,
a mind.

it is not mass,
not energy,
but a silent switch;
an imaginary capacitor,
blown,
a debt called in.
and you are simply falling
from the chair where you were sat.

the arrogant mountains watch the dust,
the new shore’s code.
they know the core of every apple
is a seed of status.
and every paradise is lost
upon the survey of a map.