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

the waves ebb and
turn like the shadows
hidden in the folds
of a curtain
there is morning somewhere
behind the fog

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

it was in the hours
between evening and
the fading warmth
of late afternoon
she could feel the changes
of the season
in the way the rain
fell in short,
whispered breaths
against her window

there are no hands
to hold
the creeping silence
the yellow light
of the lamp
nodding an apology
into the strands
of her hair

when did it change-
the twisting
hurry of the snow?
water is pooling
in the grass and
on the dimpled
sidewalk
bleeding light
like an open sore

we move in silence
the yellowing
age of the roses
continues with the tide

the lights of the houses gathered below us as if          
the stars had settled, dirtied and yellowed on the ground
too heavy now to be anything but content
(as you drove I told you- oh god I don't remember now-
maybe something stupid like how I could never
understand why my mom straightened her hair
or tried so hard to fit in and you said nothing)

a memory came back to me then.
(a band trip-long ago now-waiting outside the buses
"Hey, you'd appreciate this!" the blonde kid grabs my shoulder
and points to the sky with a grin, "Look at the clouds."
they looked flat and crisp and clean – like crackers)