Three Oranges in the Morning

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

but last night

there were four

until he muddled the body of the orange

with a reasonable rye

 

we thought what we afforded each other

was more than sensory

and less than waste

 

until he dropped the rind

down the disposal

 

letting the aroma press out of skin

until the syrup of memory

 

was already making promises

to adhere

 

as if we could compel  the atmosphere
to be a little more inhabitable

 

as if we could change

our lives in an instant
for us

I mean

 

Originally Published by : The Wax Paper