A Poor Representation

Pockets full of free
songs
I climbed the last hour
of the year
like each rung was
three minutes long.

I know
there are never two of me
in one moment.

But you don’t see me in moments, only
years,
and you don’t know
when there are twenty me’s she won’t be
yours.

You see? When I think
of it I divide my words
into packets like
seeds.

Twenty years from now I will be
unable to graft
all the me’s together
because apples
and pears
and oranges
can’t all live on the same
tree.

Take this instant
for its own sake.

I grow only
oranges in my mind,
skin
waxy like amber
pitted like a compact disc
with potential songs I peel away
I peel apart
its segments like glowing
truths,
and they rustle
like pages of a book.

But neither of us understands
the Braille beneath our fingers –
not being blind
keeps us from seeing
so much.

And, sitting between the tree of
life and the tree
of knowledge, I eat oranges
like something grown in place of
the world.