Against the tree you tie me so that I can't see the graveyard. Because we have no rope or galvanized utility chain remaining from the wedding, you bind my chest and thin thoracic nerves to the rooted set of our wet yard with a badminton net I purchased during the recently inflated threat of government shutdown. The light left leaning leased shadows through the leaves casts my frame a static finger in the knuckle of the earth. Tight nylon on my only running organ grows to mark the time between the neighbors' screams and what you're doing with the shovel. When I try to, I can hear the sound of your slight breasts dressed river-blessed in sports bra, sod pulling dirt rock forming us a hole.