A bottle hangs from an apple tree:

angularly, a wire strangles it. 

Green glazed, it is sedimented

like railway cuttings that reveal

lost layers of alluvium.

The contents almost do the same:

a scummy sheen oiling the surface

sinks into a dark solidity

of zebra-striped particles—

corpses of drowned wasps.

The container is nothing but a lure;

even the dead gone before

do not deter the inquisitive

from plunging into fatal lonzeged liquid.

In this place of resting,

with chainsaws buzzing, 

birds sing, planes jet over and death,

Porteresque, visits in this thin perfection.