apple

Walking to Jordana's house, I realize that Roslyn was not built for the casual pedestrian. All wind is generated by the speeding metal sides of SUVs and detached trailer wagons. The sidewalk, tapering into moss, is muddy, gritty, unkempt. On this path, I see an apple, discarded that morning. Half the apple's skin is intact, still shiny, distinct ridges of tooth around the edges of yellow flesh. Maybe 80 or 90 ants swarm the apple, moving quickly enough that the flesh seems illusion, the apple taken over. Imagine this: a conveyor belt of ants moving along the immense carcass of fruit to an underground lair. Or this: touching the apple, you must become a part of the unceasing motion, ants seeping into your body, until you too are an immeasurable carcass bound forth by these splinters of self, these plundering specks.