Cezanne's Apples

Just before train time, the trees

feigning distance -- suggesting something about clarity of
objects and

their relations writhing with that ecstasy of desire
which heedlessly traffics in words and color --

pretend that nobody notices, but another blazing-up at the turning
of the crystal troposphere, not too much or too little,

as we gather our rewakened sense of a will or a sensibility
at the edges of things pressing a convex world flat

we are presented with those
apples