Someone held this apple,
turned it beneath the light
to judge the grain of its skin, the color,
its resistance to being gripped.
To spare us this phenomenology,
apples get labeled.
Granny Smith, a sticker reads, and we ready
our tongues for tartness.
We know that our teeth easily dig into Gala,
and that the deep red skin of the McIntosh
is tough, slightly bitter.
So few experiences announce themselves to us
in this way.
At very least we can agree on
what happens in the unnameable darkness of the mouth.