The Orange Trees (2)

I wrangle with the foliage.
It is not quite Nora. Or if that is her
hair and the balls of her feet, so
much so.
In another, not far from here,
delicately welded chair Nora has opened
her mouth . It’s next to a stand
of potted orange trees. She’s mashing across
the street and down the opening.
There is my paper.
My shoes crossed under the table, the new sun
handing it to Nora, that she is really coming
to. These things are so quietly stories,
trees along the bay, faintness around the edges
of what I think. The sense of my teeth, blurred,

the catalogue of all my actions,

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