Curled about the grass, He warms his toes, In the speckled light, And traces the canopy’s Stubborn, knuckled twists, To a fist of red apples. Bobbing in unison, And stiff trepidation, Above the windfallen That pepper the undergrowth; Brown, and bruised, And sweet with maggots. An ochre constellation, In static orbit, About his leaning trunk.
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Gorgeous 😍