Francine peels oranges off a veranda in Texas. In a twist, tang, grackles take off their clothes at sundown. Dresses, Francine writes, I once have worn in a storm in mid-day, rare. The smell. Francine peels—oranges, darkness drunk from a well of the dead—happy to have their clothes back, a view of birds. Francine writes, Once I have my own veranda, I’ll dress in mid-day, wear from the dead, darkness. Drunk, Francine eats oranges—happy to be in Texas where grackles twist, tang in sundown. Francine writes, I am drunk. Take me off to a well of grackles, oranges, peel me.