he eats an orange
every night
before going
to bed

early morning
fades into
the stagnant
ache of summer
he waits

the pitted reflection
of the kitchen window
parts like skin
along the edge
of his knife

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morning again
my shoes
are still wet
from the rain
last night

i search
with small fingers
for the beginning
push of the light
the smell of oranges
still lingers on my pillow

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i found your footprints
by the lake
where the sand
met the lazy
tongue of the water

i wanted to tell you
about the oranges
on the counter
the soft curl
of their peels
growing dimmer
in the fading light

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