The thump of an apple startles,
mistaken first as a prowler,
sending my stomach to the floor.

These fruits keep falling,
and land, split, damaged, inedible—
lying on dew covered green.

The sickly sweet, fermented odor

of bruised red fruit
fills the yard, invades the house.

I keep cleaning,
picking up the rot
of overripe delight.

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