Harvest July day stamped on a platter among the grapes, sticky from the heat, and bones with crazy pupils look through the membrane of the peel. and it seems, in the tints of honey, viscous, tense silence, I hear a whisper, a hurried whisper, of those that are heard by those falling asleep. he is spinning persistent and yellow, the wasp's tip hidden, and an apple of an unknown variety, remaining unbitten, it rots.