It was the bottom of the night when we found your orange hills and laid ourselves beneath them. Undressed the sky of its red and the ground of its kill. The time became a measurement of the bodies that we filled. Skin grating against flesh, salvaged in our womb of grass, we found your orange hills. And there I waited anxiously for the air to still, imagining the laughter we had yet to confess. We were naked???me of my skin, the ground of its kill, but you, you were upright, and with a shrill, taut mouth addressed the sky, the ground???all that you had killed, you told them of my aging, and my infected will. How at night I left, alone, to walk among your orange hills. Then you said if I return to you, and know you still, there will be another body, a broken limb for you to press against the bottom of the night, but you will see no orange hills. There'll be no sky made unred, no ground left unkilled.