The unborn sin
Takes its cue from the apple tree
And extrapolates the fine art of revelation
To embryonic desire, in the beholder
Sometimes apples, those benefactors of lust
Are just an expression of womanhood
No riddles to solve, no invitations to grapple with
No confectionery to indulge in.
Only the implicit clarity,
That what the body sensualizes,
– Although a statement in eye candy -,
Is estranged from apple pickers.
Some apples simply belong to the tree