In crumbs I manage to keep on,
though each movement forward
sheds light on what transpired: a liaison

within the pâtisserie. And I—apple-cored
corpus, furthering decomposition
with each fruitless task, adored

for a moment but fast an omission—
into the maker's pie go I, floured and fired.
No confectioner but a mortician

bakes tarte aux pommes most desired,
gobbles up till all is gone,
until what burned hot expires.