You

I put the old apple pie at your roots
I try to make you worth searching for, in the blah-

 blah forest
But I’m not sure if I’m trustworthy / ranger material
Digital harmony, now that’s something worth

 striving for
You are prosaic, if I say so, like a pair of speaking

 scissors
Smelling nice, in season (a pathopoetics)
I could go away for twenty years; maybe you’d still

 be there, wrinkled and yearning
Or maybe you’d have a glass face, and a hoard of

 child porn 🙁
Even then I’d not learn the chainsaw
What’s this box of chocolates, the editor frowned

 coming upon your biography

Me

There’s a new tin of baking powder on the shelf
To be left out in the rain, like a sapling, seemed

 fitting
Going to a medium, hoping to explore the minds of

 newspaper readers
They have unpaid volunteers, well you know what I

 mean, to look after the garden now
One of those nought or zero anniversaries
A hedge, but only verbally
Having removed emotion from the equation he felt

 rather like the sea; giddy
See the shark tooth marks on the bark from the

 future
I haven’t blinked once while writing this
Bringing the two together, as if stories in a thicket

Wikipedia
   John.  A dense rich cake like a musical instrument

   Are.  As thin as a stork in a drought

   Roots.  To agree on reality without checking

   Blink.  Round and through, like you were just visiting

        the circus on a whim, and not stuffed in the cannon

   Matchbox.  This will keep the viewers watching

   2008.  When Annette Bening had taken an option on the

       graft, and its iterations of fruit

   Disco.  Not the original you: we’re taking some nutrients

        away, and experimenting with replacing them, with

        things we don’t know to be nutrients

   Do.  Oh, you also feel like it?

   Garden.  Feeling like the history of the holly, or

         nasturtium, or microchip, and calling someone, or

         inheriting something

   Hollow.  Returning to the old book, that your friend

         liked, that your uncle left, so you’d believe in

         something, that floats above the fabrication of

         evidence, like blossom would, if there was no

         gravity