名人诗歌|Fallen Apples

Wasps^{1 at work in the soft}

flesh of rotting apples.

Food of the gods，

all day they mine it in busy

hushed movements.

I pick up a mushy corpse²

one cold morning.

Carefully turn it over.

Its congregation tumbles

into the cupped

bowl of my hand.

Dazed， drunk， still

chilled from overnight cold，

they blunder like sleepwalkers

feeling around for the light.

Tiny antennae^{3 test my skin}

in search of something

now gone.

Warmed by my hand，

warmed by the sun，

they stagger and fall into flight.

They scribble^{4 orbits}

the air erases⁵

and whine^{6 at last out of sight.}