The Blurring of Edges

By on Mar 3, 2019 in Poetry

Three green apples, from sharp to blurred

Much younger, first acquainted
With certainty, it tasted as crisp
And tart as a green apple,
But its edges became precise,
Interlocking gears, a vast machine.

I governed impeccable itineraries,
I tallied every petty minutia,
Mortgages, insurance, taxes,
Attempting to grasp water,
Exceedingly specific molecules.

Now, I have this urge
To blur all edges,
Debussy rather than Mozart,
Monet rather than Ingres,
The haze, the ubiquitous haze:

A simmering August morning,
Heat steaming off the dew,
When the rasping din
Of cicadas muddles the head
In mesmerizing rhythm;

When the fog is dense,
Oceans and sky mingling
At the wet lips of horizon,
Vaporous words washing upon
A shore, a diffuse La Mer;

Like the estuary of young lovers
Who, intoxicated with infatuation,
Can’t drink enough of the other
Or the old couple, fused, no longer
Distinguishing one from the other;

When cataracts obscure
Our vision, our memory mists;
In the attempt to recall,
Thought is increasingly elusive —
Which truths remain unequivocal?

That moment at dusk,
The blending of day and night,
I doze but still hear
The noises of routine, a dog,
A truck, an unhappy baby,

Vague pieces of conversation,
I hover, a magical levitation,
Between consciousness and dream,
At the eradication of hours,
At the blurring of edges.


David Sapp is a writer, artist and professor living along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. He is a 2018 Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award grant recipient for poetry. His poems have appeared widely in a number of venues across the United States, in Canada and the United Kingdom. His publications also include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior; chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha; and his novel, Flying Over Erie.