Worse in Spring

‘If you woke up every time
an apple

fell from that tree outside
your window it

would be a kind of hell,
a punishment.’

No such luck, I thought
of answering.

Can’t think of the thud
of fruit as

a kind of heartbeat.
It’s not healthy.

Since you moved in (well,
practically,

I’ll have to say that:
practically)

to this room apples
haven’t stopped

(with the window open
now you hear

the season’s last concert
in the park

bandstand) falling. They’ve been
golden leaves;

no, golden eggs. Spry insects
enter when

a storm thickens: (you can’t
see the park

but you can hear) you’ve
taken to

catching the big green
bush crickets

in an empty mug, sliding
some paper

underneath: (the silver band
plays the theme

from The Simpsons) a gas bill
or a poem.

The crickets click their wings
disconcert-

ingly (the band note perfect).
The apples

rot and sleep on the lawn
and I answer:

‘If that were true it would be
worse in spring.’