OrangesThe oranges heavy in the tree
are a constellation, a woman's voice. I drove past groves of them when dawn was just beginning to peel back the darkness with its bright thumb, and it was row after row like a choir slowly lifting its melody. We demanded nothing from each other. It was early, and longing would have only blinded us. While the west was still black I wanted to drive out to the low valley in moonlight and fog. to scoop handfuls of the night and carry them with me straight into morning.
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