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Monday, November 24, 2008

November Apples

Apples in first snow

Arms still pointing to Heaven,
In an unpredictable plummet,
The apples fall from the tree,

A scent of nocturnal November
Waiting to be eaten, every fleck
And hue of russet wet and ripe,

Flavours as wild, sharp and bruised
As the inaugural autumn air,
Its incense burns low on the night,

Spiked with stubble from first snow,
Teeth tear as skin snaps under
An ungracious ripping of the fruit,

Tongues clench at white flesh
To suck at seed clusters
Thatched deep in its shaft,

The pulp is swallowed whole,
With only the brash ripeness
Alive and kicking 'til the last.

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