Far away in the nearest corner
where the brown hot orange tree
swung its globe the grass unburned
was shaded green and dark below
the hanging wood. A single bound
dislodged the fruit and stripped it
bare of its appeal. The branches
cold and yellow now gave out and wept
red tears that dyed the land at its base.
It was all so base and we ate like pigs.

(originally appeared in Montage, Spring ’74
as "The people pay to watch me lie.")