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
by then 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