We Come form the Orchard Eating
In the mouth it feels like we've bitten free some corner of the sky. Cumulus but ominous. Stew or cotton candy? I think I chipped a tooth. I remember falling asleep on a science book, the word cumulonimbus. These low-sky afternoons, the trees across the valley touch the wet skin of my eyes. A chunk of sky the size of a piano floating by. Poor water on the page. Start a fire to watch the sparks lift free like gnats in a jug of gasoline. These days I find myself saying enough and walking outside as if I had something to do out there. Yesterday in my socks. I watched black wings circling. I called them hawks in my head. I called them lots of things. Light mixed with milk.
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