I am no more to you, than

the teal vase on the shelf, delicate

that you dropped onto hardwood

when you were bored

and got tiresome

and restless

of keeping it safe.

I am no more, than the wax apples with painted pallor,

Only for display

Unsweet when bitten

Or fireplace, alluring without flame

or assistance of log.

“Look, look at my vase,

at my untainted apples

that do not bruise

that do not wither

my fire that

glows in orange midst, does not flicker.

it is for display. It is all for display”

Well I will sit in a chair,

letting the glow of the sunbeams push within

fog or mist or that sort

pour into the reflection

color on my lips

I am just your vase,

your apples, your fire;

But oh,

Oh, how it is yours