we are held under the surface where light
blues our voices
and lamp-fire coming on
and on through the night—
a whiteout, a blackout,
a plowman’s dream.
Between us, the last orange,
or the first. Its skin a sleeping spiral,
its fruit, super numinous.
So begins our ceremony
without tea, love
without the pleasure of invention.
A hand traveling from the fourth vertebrae
to the hip is a carrier pigeon.
Its message: unbuckle the belt you fool.
And so the hand does what a hand does.
And so the orange, still whole,
remains on the table
while the world outside longs for more—
more snow, more depth, more grip
on the legs of those who pass.
O save the snow falling like nations,
save dawn’s glittering lament—
so to wake
so to save what is there
shattering into the next.
And so on the white noise, the love noise,
the nothing noise of everything falling and us
falling with it.
Up to the windows and falling faster,
and from where we lay thrashing
out a pair of angels,
a million versions stick in our lashes—
all fallen, all of it ash.