First of the Fallen

Apple apparitions shivering in their skins.
Larvae cackle - it could be so much worse for us - but
shall we dine tonight?  There is time tomorrow
for apple-whispered sad-sap words.  How it is:
last evening's grub-gruel wanting the ground.
Crystal of sap-whisper in our veins:
celluloid crepitant titanium.
Early stench of decay when the wind twists which-way,
larvae gorge on breaths of berries getting fat:
sweet-sweat, their widening corridors, paper thin
like those walls we saw in Japan's love hotels,
now distraught, must halt.
Is it finished?  You know so.
You hoped for a kind winter, or any winter, a moment ago.

Larvae whispering sad-sap words.

This could be celluloid, the crunch underfoot
on the cutting-room floor, spooling to distance.
The grunge is as good as any orchard.


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