And they share the blood.
They can't leave the sky,
though city grief is all they can believe.
Dazed above their heads,
the leaves are chrome: society.
Then between the apples and the apples
they see home,
the blue trees of their homeland.
Her hands hold all they ever wanted, the pain
of a beloved calm that once drew
every shirt from every town; and so
they go, wound
with wound, grain with grain
in the whirring afternoon, into
the blue with blue.