Breakfast-time

At dawn she sneaks blood oranges
From the grange-

Land, and the seeded pulp and the climbing (where the farmers’ fence is
Rough) have painted orange-

Red her picking arm. For several
Mornings now I’ve seen her range

Her pickings in a row—the smallest smaller
Than a hummingbird, the largest larger than the clock’s face near the range—

And here today I lie and think on it (for I
Am in our half-lit orange

Trundle bed) and realize that, for a member of
The farming grange

Who sits
With stock arranged

Before the market crowd, a certain
Type of orange

Sells consistently. It seems to me an issue of appearances:
There are those oranges

That are
More orange-

Sized than others (like the hummingbird or kitchen clock)
On the market stage,

And so they leave a space
On farmers’ orange

Lines, just as they
Fill our range-

Top bowl on a Saturday,
When we sit and watch the orange

Sway of the orange
Grange.