What Comes After Nine Lives
There are no white apples,
unless you clone them
from your grandmother's hair.
It is the nature of sin; it takes all
clichéd symbolisms to make a point.
The cold is the same everywhere. The cat
knows that; it loves the hand which is
certain of where to touch it. And even if
they say that the dust in its fur comes
from God, it licks itself clean, anyway.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.