The day before his appointment they went
to the orchard. They always went in June,
and driving up they listened to Patsy Cline
because they always listened to Patsy Cline.

He stayed in the trees until she said Come down
and on the last rung this new thing—her hand

pressed against his back, as if he were a child
who needed catching. He hated her. And
she lifted the basket of cherries to show him
their pale skins, hemorrhaged with sweetness.