Classic Poem

Within the hard surface of night's bowl
Intensifying their bright colors
The autumn fruits
Apples, pears, grapes, and so forth
Each as they pile
Upon another
Goes closer to sleep
To one theme
To great music
Each core, reaching its own heart
Deliberately reposes
Around it circles
The time of rich putrefaction
Now before the teeth of the dead
Those fruits and their kind
Which unlike stones do not strike
Add to their weight
And in the deep bowl
Behind this semblance of night
On occasion