A white ceramic bowl
holds grapes and apples.
A dusty bag of potatoes
resting in the corner.

Raspberries on the bathroom floor
crushed by tiny feet.
Two dark brown eye lashes
on the toilet seat.

White powder on my handgun.
Smoke and ashes under the sheets.
Her corpse lay in the kitchen.
Her dry, open eyes
like small white peaches.

If blood were white
I wouldn't worry.
If fruits were murdered,
or never grown.

If my mouth had never tasted
the earth's bounty.
Then I would be moral.
Then I would be merry.