Sharing an Orange
A childhood friend is walking in place
on a spinning log in the river.
This is how I remember.
His feet will get tired. His arms
will eventually trade exuberant flailing
for balance. Someday—one
that doesn’t make itself known--
he will fall in. Before long, he will become
like all the other shipwrecks:
accidents when found, endpoints
to circumventions. His two shoes
will float to opposite ends of the universe.
Then one day you will bump into him
at your kitchen table, consolidated,
unchanged. He will reach into the fruit
bowl, begin peeling an orange.
Segment by segment, he will eat it
with your lips, taste it with your tongue,
until the whole thing is gone and you’re full.
on a spinning log in the river.
This is how I remember.
His feet will get tired. His arms
will eventually trade exuberant flailing
for balance. Someday—one
that doesn’t make itself known--
he will fall in. Before long, he will become
like all the other shipwrecks:
accidents when found, endpoints
to circumventions. His two shoes
will float to opposite ends of the universe.
Then one day you will bump into him
at your kitchen table, consolidated,
unchanged. He will reach into the fruit
bowl, begin peeling an orange.
Segment by segment, he will eat it
with your lips, taste it with your tongue,
until the whole thing is gone and you’re full.
Inertia
There is a Lazy Susan
that spins, attached to a string.
The string is pulled
by a smiling man.
he may or may not have
eyes (orange glow of television).
The television is not a television
but an electric diorama. Small clay
men hold small dental
mirrors, reflecting light.
The room is otherwise dark.
The little men talk as if in a trance.
If the man understands them,
he chooses to ignore them.
Maybe they’re telling him to stop
tugging? That’s a question
he’d never ask.
that spins, attached to a string.
The string is pulled
by a smiling man.
he may or may not have
eyes (orange glow of television).
The television is not a television
but an electric diorama. Small clay
men hold small dental
mirrors, reflecting light.
The room is otherwise dark.
The little men talk as if in a trance.
If the man understands them,
he chooses to ignore them.
Maybe they’re telling him to stop
tugging? That’s a question
he’d never ask.
A Man is Fishing with Dynamite.
He would like to have them
In their place, the slithering
things. Long ago,
He gave up on the reel, the fly,
The bait. He’s done
with the art of it, the subtlety.
Now he throws a stick.
Waits.
In their place, the slithering
things. Long ago,
He gave up on the reel, the fly,
The bait. He’s done
with the art of it, the subtlety.
Now he throws a stick.
Waits.
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