Let Us Make A Pie of Time It is midnight in the kitchen, time dripping from a faucet, filling a bucket wedged neatly under pipes. And there is a mountain of apples, granny-smith and green, unripe and tart, balanced on a table near the clock. And because those apples are sour and hard, and I am hungry for your lips between my lips, let us make a pie of time, you and I, peeling back weeks, to reveal meaty days, slicing those days into thin wafer hours, savoring the scent of each sour minute, letting the seconds run down on our chins, licking our lips to remember a moment, rebuilding the past we've cut up with our knives, toasting it warm til the filling runs over, and we are left with much more than crumbs, minutes to spare, sugared and warm coating our fingers and tongues. ©Lisa Feinstein