Beloved. Wake up. Four in the morning. Still so dark. Reach for the bones but P. says, No. Xie stares. P. not playful, not grim; something in between. What is it. P. turning to the door in the floor. Points of his crown sharp even in the dark. Making their own light. Come, beloved. Dressing in the cold. Down the ladder. Over the fence and across the log and deep into the trees, flesh still asleep. He rubs his eyes, sleeves pulled over his palms. Where are we going. Lightest dusting of snow like glitter in the dark. The ground so hard beneath his feet, cold slicing up his lungs. Fifteen minutes. Silence except for. Sound of P. Then. Look down, P. says. Xie looks. Kneels. Spot of gold against a black carpet of leaves. Digs to pluck it free. Tiny cross on a fine chain. How did it get. Here? P. putting Xie’s back against a tree. Laying the necklace around his throat. Tucks it beneath his collar, frozen kiss against his skin. P.’s hand against his cheek, hard, P.’s thumb against his chin, pulling his mouth open so he can graze teeth and cheek and bone against Xie’s lips. Unzip of jeans to make him come over the ground the snow melting on the tip. Ragged gasp and slap of P.’s hand against his face to make him shout don’t question it. You were afraid when you saw him the first time and you are still afraid. Kneel, P. says. Xie immediately on his knees. Lifting the silver skirt. Tilt of bone to Xie’s tongue. Thumbing the wings of the iliums, which flare out from the spine like the split peel of an orange, revealing the great hole of the pelvis, the fruit of the body, of all bodies, which is nothing, which is air. Sneaker against trunk, Xie braced between columns of birch and bone. Licking the tip of the coccyx, angling his head beneath P.’s hips to reach it, the tiny rough knob warm and wet from his breath. Between his own knees he could, if he looked, see the first touch of dawn spreading like frost on the shins of P.’s boots but his eyes are closed, he is half freeze, half fire, cocooned beneath the skirt, knees aching. P.’s sigh and then. Silence. Xie wiping the saliva from his chin, forehead against pelvis, his own crown of bone. Scatter of squirrels through the brush. P. says, Shh. Distant footsteps through the leaves. If someone saw them what would they see. Heart pounding, hand to chest as if to silence it. Two voices. Far but not so far, not far enough. Something hard hitting the trunk of a tree. They’re straight and healthy, good size. Slowly, P. lifts his skirt, like a curtain, the woods a stage. Slap of cold. Bare branches and the air glittering with ice. Two men. One Erik’s age, big belly in a down vest, the other young, not even thirty, old sheepskin coat and dark hair to his shoulders, rolling his boot over a stone. Bright orange eyes of their cigarettes. If they look in Xie’s direction they will see him, hunched over on his knees, brutally exposed; P. can’t or won’t hide you. You stop breathing. Fear and fury pinning you in place. Should have time to do the first batch end of summer, don’t you think. The young one nods. Sucking on his cigarette, eyes narrow, he’s only. Two dozen trees away. Private property. If they find out you are here they can stop you. From ever coming back. The young one takes a step, puts both hands against a tree, tips his head back to look at the crown. Beauties, he says, and you squeeze your eyes shut, shaking all over. When you open them again the men are turning, backs to you. Moving off until. Gone. Branches shivering above them. Why did you let them in here. P. silent, cocking his head and for a split second you see P. as others might: a monster, along with the trees, the men, you, there is no difference, an immense and grotesque disorder at the heart of all things. Xie gags into the dirt, still on his knees. The utter stillness of the birch, of P., watching. Did you know they were coming. Silence. Did you bring me here so I would know, too. Silence. Then the sound of P. kneeling, chest against your back, hand over your eyes. Jaw against your ear. Silence.