Startover
Fleshed only to fall towards
their own bad making, the apples
drop cold to an early bed.
Marred before any real beginning
it seemed a spontaneous waste––
the plummet and rot of
what might have been sweet.
The forces went
silently, zeroed by unforeseen
turns in the season.
Some love succumbed to
what it could not eat.
Some love was only the bored child
with a croquet mallet
swinging at the first falling
just to watch it bruise for sport.
