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If I gaze at an apple
and smoke with a shaman
who plucks with bended knee
the apple red of famous mythology,
and know that myth
has ever been twisted and bent
since first was picked
from the garden’s heavenly tree,
then I know that knowledge
was never granted from the branch;

When I look at the shape of things
and see that love apples were tomatoes
and that the dirt covered tubers
were known widely as earth apples
and golden apples were not oranges
and history had yet been writ
into its myths and stories,
before Snow White had laid upon its bed
and drifted off into her sleep,
then I know that knowledge
was never the poison that kicked us from the gates.

If I look at an apple
and sit with bended knees
and pluck with timid fingers
the fly agaric, the mushroom apple,
that gave us knowledge when all was mystery,
then I know that the poison comes
with the act of forgetting all the apple trees.

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