Interpretation

Interpretation

Off-road, amidst yellowing leaves and crudely
painted in white, a sign: "Fresh Oranges Daily,"
and an abandoned wooden fruit stand.
I plan the drive around this ritual, arriving
in time to catch the sun bowing in the branches
of those cedars, basking on the opposite bank.
For now the lake ripples along in slow torpor
with the crisp air, made dusty by drought.
At sunset it is different. For the first time
in my life, all I can think of are oranges.
The way one slice so effortlessly peels away
from another, perfectly suited for the mouth.
I drift into this slow perfection, where the sky breaks
into dusk, thin slices of orange cut through the clouds,
and I catch myself thinking of the spirituality of machinery.
I imagine this erosion as some signature of our failures.
Any sort of metaphor fails here, I know; the sunset
is already gone, like the sound of a passing train.
All that's left is an interpretation.
Again, this sunset is different. To sleep
in its sight is to curl into the arms of a lover.
I breathe the air of the light, become its latticework.
I glide over the black trails of crows, into shade.
I plunge my hands into a mound of wet leaves,
the only damp part of this country.
It feels like breath and flight and escape.