paper neatly rolled cold hours of walls and words of silence and the clock ticking stare at the glass tides of people pass and pass, who was the fairest of them all? your bitter fruit the apple bitten in your palm wave goodbye to years of rooms and shadowing to pages' turns and gathering quiet rage the raving heart inarticulate o flat accolade peg it to the line let the ink dry hanging high in red and gold like propertynext poem