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The earth is being dug between us this evening.
Turned over with resolution.
No one will know come morning.
The clay will have risen, that confident perfume.

Slaughterhouse fish have slipped into the lake
And the hum of summer is a cloud of bees.
There are sickles in the grass, murder in the trees,
And the pretty pond is full of snakes.

The clay has hardened and thus we harden.
We smooth the cracks into skin.
No one will know come morning.
But the worms will have risen, and the blooms.

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Nodes for day 6