Hunting for apples
through the brown autumn
in your gross faces
with the long noses
and the crooked eyes.
Children
I offer you love.
I offer you
the round apple of sin.
I offer you
the charred face
of the posthumous
demented one
I offer you
children
for your fresh faces
your apple cheeks
your faked hunched backs
memories of the fire
the sickening stench
the pale witch floating
under the red moon
of a crooked evening.
The long body
the thin pointed nose
the head shaking.
In a deserted house
an armchair rocking.