In mornings, with fog sleeping on a world about to wake, my thoughts and my being, dissipate to another. His jaw, chiseled by old world lyrics, born by a Sea, far from me. I am apple pie America, green-eyed, rusted bridge snout ; his eyes, descended from gypsies traveled by mysteries. How plain apple pie fares next to Black Sea delicacies. Powders and blankets can not cover this discrepancy, making it more delicious to me.