I pick up the fruit, it is all mold...

I pick up the fruit, it is all mold; a perfect string
of silence, of death twitched by chance.
Creased rotund my feet, the sheet of grass heavy with dew
as the night explains up and in a small range upstairs
forward return,
solitude: wheeling screechy birds startled
without of their everyday place;
you fall to dust, pass by (love), and with you that
which does not matter, which