You could almost be forgiven for thinking
They were bats, the apples hanging winter-
Black in their branches: almost forgiven for thinking
Them sacks fattened on insects plucked from a sky sucked dry of light.
Suspended inversely in slow snow, they bulge
The squeak of seeds, of leaves springing
Up from harvest rot. What sugar
The sun brings out, what discordant music,
What flavors leather these wings of fruit.