Ghost Apples

Some days, only the shapes of what I've done
              remain on the tree— Forms wrapped 

in freezing rain, their outlines a kind of crystallized 
              intention even as flesh browns and softens 

with rot, leaking through the cracks. Remember
               the vibrant reds and yellows, how they freckled

and bloomed into taste on your tongue? We learn
               how, even composted, everything is sugar.

It's what both the vulture and crow intuit, 
               and the maggot in the bin. I am sorry 

for the waste, for the ways dumb appetite translates
              excess into pain. Still, I want to keep alive the hope

that what remains isn't shroud or elegy; isn't the hull
              of what was abandoned but what endured, despite.   

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