The allotment is full of preposterous squashes. They swoop from stem to stern like outrageous and malformed question marks, crying, "When is the last time you were upside down?" and, "You think you're flying on your bicycle? What do you know!" I was supposed to catch these entities while they were flowers, slipping pieces of cheese in their caverns, folding them into parcels and dipping them in batter then sizzling them in olive oil. But what did I do? I went to the ocean and sank in sand and wave, and allowed these monsters to bulge. How they bully me from their muscular stems under the steeple with its round top in the pinky-orange clouds.