We lived, we four, we lived; in a summer house in a citrus grove.
And when in our pairs we made love on the Victorian couches in the living room
It was like the laughter of children, dancing among the leafy orange trees;
And when we sat and drank, and talked for hours in the waning light
It was like children sharing their secret trinkets among the fallen limes.
But when we were silent, and we sat staring at one another
In the uncomfortable hours and in the stuffy rooms, and lying back to back - chilled -
In the over-musty veridian beds: it was not like children
Crying among the trees of bitter lemons,
Whose juices burned and cleansed our palates,
Whose sorbets cooled and washed in delightful soursweet.
It was just dead trees.
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