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.