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


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