We take fallen pears to the horses at dusk, listen to them crunching. Our grief is an ocean, our shoulders are all that save us. I walked a long time to get away from Golgotha, only to find myself back at Golgotha. How long must we insist that prayer and ecstasy be one movement? She cries driving back from the orchard, my confessions as brutal as psilocybin or some other psychosis. Nothing stays that is not already gone. These poems becoming ash and whatever else we are in the eyes of a blind quadruped. Two crows pass, a third, then it's night.