The truth I'm searching for is like the apple
I hesitate to bite into in fear of its hardness
on which I break my teeth.
And then again, it's possible decay within,
to fill my mouth with rot.
I study the apple, budding forth like a belly
or a rounded breast.
This is the truth for me, and I look at it
from time to time where it sits upon a plate,
as I ignore what lies beneath the skin and don't care.
For my time is being filled with love.