I carve an orange
The sour peel floats away
On the lake
As does all else

I glance at the open book
With the unbroken spine
At the pages flit in November wind
The vermilion cover shuts on its own

They call out to me
I could share my decayed fruit
But I don’t walk back, I listen instead
For the space in their fixed places

Cross-legged, the grass itches
The leg where my beaten boots are short
Restless, I see the hands of time I wear again
Again, there are no crevices to creep into
And no place to be had.