all this love to burn
land to burn

it is hidden among your apple trees
or are they figs
those cries heard through the night
fallen
two stories from your sleeping voice

I hear them in the garden now
the wind may help them whisper
but who helps them yell
screaming things in their own
soft voices
a last night to holler
with morning comes the threat of
consumption

here
on this blocked cement
patio
a measuring cup, a spoon to scoop
laid out on the plank board table
found wood
one sharp knife
to slice the ripe

we never peel anymore
it takes too long