Translation: Paul Vincent
Because apples stack so nicely I’d like to
stack some under your skin. Your legs, skull, chest
full of apples, the yellow kind covered in spots and full
of lumps. Just one red, shiny
perfect one that shifts as it moves through your
body. And then trying to tell where, in which of your
limbs exactly it is hidden, and every time I guess right
to take it out, take
a bite from it, trifling, true, but multiplying by infinity makes it
undeniably desecrated.
