Oranges

ORANGES

For MJM 1946-1995

 

Felt it coming, I’ll bet, the earth’s

final invitation.

 

Lying motionless in dry grass

under a leaning tree

you watch a slatted sky pour

the ripened sun.

 

A steely Santa Anna

furnaces noonday leaves just beyond

your reach.

Light bathed fruit,

like a Hopper still life,

draws your finished thoughts.

 

A petal crested orange,

like a jeweled pendant,

bobs in sun’s center at the side door

of your vision. Another,

directly overhead, winks into life,

winks out.

You can feel their pulpy flesh

behind your eyes,

little membranes in juice, ruptured,

ebbing…

 

With ruined breath

and pupils saucerd in

blinding light

you take a final look:

the last oranges hanging,

unpeeled.