Still Life draft

A peach lies still upon mahogany. 

Mahogany deserves a bowl in which 

confinement teases out the sprawl. 

That we may think in longhand and allow 

the mind to stall the pinch and loll in nothing known. 

I ought to tell you something of myself.

I grew up and alone in my room.

But I am social. Sociable.

Look at the piece of fruit alone atop

the missing bowl. The wood effete

with wealth. Rejection as the point.

of who and what to dis-include.