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My tongue…
It rots with an apprehension’s
touch.
So I grab an apple peeler from the
drawer,
Instead of a toothbrush.
Shaving off a couple peels of
skin,
I’m eager for something better
beneath.
“Danger!”
I say with my peeler,
Words are too much like fruit;
People love eating the flesh to
feel.
Shavings of red splat against the
floor;
A painting in Pollock’s’ style
Tiresome to understand,
I repeat my own instructions
Hoping for different results and
For these brief moments,
My interest …
Only the apples’ core.
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