After the fiesta, the beauty-contests, the drunken
    wrestling
Of the blossom
Come some small ugly swellings, the dwarfish truths
Of the prizes.

After blushing and confetti, the breeze-blown
    bridesmaids, the shadowed snapshots
Of the trees in bloom
Come the grueling knuckles, and the cracked
    housemaid’s hands,
The work worn morning plainness of apples.

Unearthly was the hope, the wet star melting the gland,
Staggering the offer —
But pawky the real returns, not easy to see,
Dull and leaf-green, hidden, still-bitter, and hard.

The orchard flared wings, a new heaven, a dawn-lipped
    apocalypse
Kissing the sleeper —
The apples emerge, in the sun’s black shade, among
    stricken trees,
A straggle of survivors, nearly all ailing.