Specked with wet but tawny in the sun;
red like lips of children as they run
to rummage near the roots
of grass where, next to ground,
the apple hollows, ringed with brown.

Ringed with brown and rotting in the green
like Samson’s lion, spawning in the heat
both sour bees and gospel sweets.

Those bowery bees.
So cider-drunk they couldn’t find their hive
and had to cavern out the corpse
and sleep inside.

The apple starts to buzz
and seems to crowd a pent-up core
or rumble like saloons
when losers tumble out the door
but ear to brain is slow
and can’t (like nightmares) can’t…let…go
before the apple (move!) explodes
and spews mad bees out through the hole.

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