Wasps 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 corpse

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 antennae test my skin

in search of something

now gone.

Warmed by my hand，

warmed by the sun，

they stagger and fall into flight.

They scribble orbits

the air erases

and whine at last out of sight.