Five dollars for the blue bowl.
Swirls of iridescent cobalt, flawless.
On the bottom, a signature
carved into clay.
I have no use for this bowl
but the blush of blue throat
has seized me.
Once home, I survey my kitchen counter.
A bag of yellow apples, cramped and ignored,
is freed from plastic webbing,
finds luxurious lodging
in a blue bosom.
Yellow skins now glow
with golden freckles
Tiny bruises gather on softening shoulders;
the apples have been lonely
for too long.
As for the bowl,
a vortex of copper
embellishes each rib.
Blueness intensified
with the ecstasy
of her apples.
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