Past Apples

Words scatter 

             don’t scare them away

we tread with trepidation -- slowly, they gather

again

My soul

is the sea-skimming air

that whistles through young children’s shells,

mimicking siren calls

It is

the hurricane gusts

Deceit is

the cradling of substance to one’s chest, 

cold glass against writhing skin

a walk of shame across white hospital tiles,