We call it love - this hidden orchard path twilit figs have fallen near to rest, where we stroll and speak and listen ‘til the fruit is sapped, youthful sins confessed bundled with twigs, themselves detached resembling branches with complimentary scars left groping floor-shadows: those of lustful hop-scotch-jigsaws; those of the faint whimper heard in morning as fresh fades to rot; of dawn-kissed figs molting; of a daughter crying to the barren nursery while mother plans forever unaffordable furnishings. We call it love - this lonely strip-mall path followed, leading to just another lost-in-the mail acceptance letter to just another lost-in-the-scuffle’s paternal subjugate, with love.