Apple Peel
Feel the shells crack between
teeth, tangled in their
cavernous catastrophe – gate
keepers for the words
forthwith to spread
like empty streets before
us in humble jurisdiction.

Look pretty
sad these
days.

Feel the peel
as it squeals
before the knife
as it scours flesh
from fruit,

a forbidden
uncovering;

a hand
sloping
over a hip;

the hype
of night,

a quiet moon
on a still twilight
masterfully sung
by legions of insects
and their ephemeral
hum;

a drum
brought to
the air like
a drought – the
sound of wandering
as it's seen by firelight,

by a single
section of fingers
held behind backs,

the peel parts
from the body,
sinks between
webs and wicker
threads,

keep it like a
staircase,

a place for your
teeth to tread upon.