Yellow heart

This morning I wrote a poem
about a yellow heart
pining for red fusion,
in a desperate attempt
to shake the fruit
that never

falls

And tonight I am alone
without tangerine lips
or the temptation of apple,
carefully watching familiar verses
unravel themselves
and fanatically dance around
like a final punctuation mark
or an overused cliche,
while my hands whittle metaphors
into a quick-witted instrument
sharp enough to scrape
the smeared imagery
off the sidewalk of poem,

Still I am not sorry
the fruit has not

fallen
to kiss my weary head,
it takes an overly cautious yellow
to see the perfect shade of red