Sir Issac Newton sat beneath an apple tree,
finding refuge from me and my fury
at his economical ordering
of a scotch-on-the-rocks-hold-the-rocks
and pondered hackneyed,
the word he’d used to describe I love you,
a phrase not to be overused.
I’d wanted to hear them.
I wanted to hear those hackneyed words
every goddam day
while he played a ukulele outside my window
(preferably in the rain),
and I wanted them carved in a tree trunk,
in every tree trunk in the fucking forest
while he pirouetted about like Orlando in Arden
at their mere utterance,
and he did not know why,
when the apple knocked him on the head,
he felt his eyes well
the moment he knew
we fall because our mass and the earth’s mass
are inversely proportional
to the square of the distance between us.