Pale lemons litter the field
That swallows our entangled bodies.
Sinful children parade under the blue roof
That our father carved in deceitful design.
Lips, ripe with tension, press together.
The roots have rotted at our arrival,
And our raw limbs have forgotten
How to escape. Such sanction
Does not make the crows scatter.
Tell the neighbors what is done;
It is August, and I have split myself open.