Whenever I’m at the store buying apples
and someone I've known taps my shoulder and says
didn’t you used to be
I always wonder which one they mean
the me in the sun at the tip of the branch
or the one who fell hard and lay bruised in the grass
and whenever I look at a painting of apples
I see what used to be called the dead layer
the moonlight shades of ochre and umber
that lie just below the bright apple colors
and whenever I stand in front of the mirror
someone I know says what do you see
the dead or the bright
the paint or the glass
and I'm never sure which apple I am.