A clear ultramarine blue bowl,
Its shallow exterior curve, like the fullness of your breast,
No lip. Just smooth cool glass holding.
Its shadow reflected on the tabletop,
A faint blue cast spilling over the waxed wood,
Holding a pile of Braeburn apples and dimpled tangerines.
This is the center of our love,
The tender fruit coddled in the shining blue bowl,
The cherry dining table, cleared for dinner.
I stand in the doorway watching and wanting,
The wide glass bowl holding our love,
Your lips on the back of my neck.