The Orange Trees
Nora has opened her mouth while I am
studying her. She's mashing across the
street and down a black opening
to the sea. To us, the wind and stories
of trees along the bay, what faintness
our bodies have to spare. I should,
I keep saying, say she is pretty. The sense
of my teeth, blurred, like the catalogue of all
my actions, to a dark rust: some feeling
that has been taken out too long.
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 that I can't beleive it or I can't be in
another, not far from here; a delicately
welded chair. It's next to a stand
of potted orange trees. There is my paper there,
my shoes crossed beneath, the new sun
handing it to Nora, that she is really coming
to, seeing as things so quietly are.
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