Of Salt & Oranges

Something long dead and

aged, drowned in barreled wine;

floated up to drooping ceiling tiles

like an orange peel bobbing at

the underside of some lonely pier-

salt and citrus linger on the air to 

pool between the cracks and 

drift off into the pulling tides. 

Through the night sometime

I could come back and find it still

bobbing there, cold and reluctant;

not wanting to let go of the surface-

even though its time has passed;

the tree that bore it has abandoned

every fruit it has ever made but 

the orange peel holds out for

a little longer, just in case.

The phantom of God is lost in 

the ceiling tiles of a rickety building

that sits by an old dock somewhere;

trapped in the dark chambers of 

attic passages that haven't been 

seen by human eyes in ages of oaks-

I don't claim to know their dealings

but I've become quite familiar with

the taste of brine and rot.

Reviews

[Delmar Cooper]

I didn't find easy access to this poem. I liked it for the sound and for the dready feeling it conjured. After several readings I came to feel something about passing and change - a tidal feeling the way blood pulses until it doesn't.

Thank you for sharing.