in athens i accepted a piece of fruit out of politeness.
sun rays through the window behind, above, drew lighter squares on the yellow walls, here, the apartment kitchen. with a body like a dream(willowy and white) remarking about a job in america with a tone that glanced away from my eyes but hear plainness(stinging as it should; dear god).yes,cherries, i think.

some nights i wonder, if that fruit(i have borne from that wicked woman)would still so fester my soul if i had gagged myself(damned was i)as soon as stumbling away; or,(this i do know, in still silent stillness)
 justice demands that i always leave ashamed.