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