Three Black Oranges

Three Black Oranges

Three Black Oranges

Snow tracks filled with nightfall, strange
how ice so quickly erodes
leather soles, flying foxes, imported oranges

Part of the frozen river; against the hull meaning
dips: Bukowski turns
to Oedipus
via Prokofiev & pens footnotes
to his father’s reckless semen

writes how he wishes his I
had never been born, his trick that he’d
been stuck with

Three black oranges
cradled in park snow, flaccid as liver
croak with the muscularity of
an oboe when
I crush them with a stick

Spilling out of my pockets
envelopes distributed like dull frosted pea-
nuts –      In the parking lot
I pass a bevy of disembowelled post boxes
drinking turps &
begging me
for the hiss of a letter

there only remains to say since writing
has become impossible:

hooked fish think of water
only as well as they can

your invisible calm
balances fruitfully a circle of dampening stones.