CIDER

Our feet forget why.
They fall in place.
This world spins.
It is no mistake that 
Apple is round.
We feed on the sins of
Repetition, casting bitter seeds
To ground, cores of our distaste
Resurrected as orchards.
Yes, in precisely governed rows
We cultivate echoes of addiction,
Erect shacks to market 
Watered down extracts of our pressings.