Late Poems
The apples are old
only good for smelling.
They will rot
returning to the earth
via the city dump.
For now they fill the kitchen
with Autumnal tones
and woodland tints.
The rot of this season
abides in its ripe fruit.
Such edible fruits
that tempt the mouth only to deceive.
The berries and apples are too sumptuous;
so quickly on the tongue
do they decay.
In the waste pits
fat white grubs burst their pale skins
releasing all the ailing redolence
of the Fall,
a scent and fodder
for the sinking clumps and tuffets,
for all the mossy corpses
with their damp and lusterless
rags of mist.
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