He to know he is a farmer. She to cut, to be split open to pare the fruit. Remember the good branches and shade, how the roots grew as if predestined to suggest rest. Forgot, she said, settled into her chair, waited for death to pull up. My mother sits in the high-backed chair inherited from her mother.
Mail piles up.
The longcase clock ticks in the hall. Dust settles around her like frost. When I get up in the morning And buckle up the belt, I am ready. It changes our lives as the Serpent Changed Adam. He went To look for some clothes.