Toilet Apples

Now I feel my inside’s gray matter I imagine apples in bathroom corners, the sweet smell of urine, insane waltzes of the way the wind blows through the window, the red leaves of laughter, laughter tongues on the ends of each well of deeper stillness, trapped, flesh, back into the cool refrigerator. The apples cannot be eaten, but remain the ticklers of stillness. We bring our darkness into gray. Shut up. Open it red.

June 1971