Wasps¹ at work in the soft

    flesh of rotting apples.

    Food of the gods，

    all day they mine it in busy

    hushed movements.

    I pick up a mushy corpse²

    one cold morning.

    Carefully turn it over.

    Its congregation tumbles

    into the cupped

    bowl of my hand.

    Dazed， drunk， still

    chilled from overnight cold，

    they blunder like sleepwalkers

    feeling around for the light.

    Tiny antennae³ test my skin

    in search of something

    now gone.

    Warmed by my hand，

    warmed by the sun，

    they stagger and fall into flight.

    They scribble⁴ orbits

    the air erases⁵

    and whine⁶ at last out of sight.