They hang like breasts, two oranges,
thick-skinned, trench-skinned, bulbous
at the tips. A rigid cable joins them:
hold it up to the light, copper wires
beneath the green stretched tight.
How they blossom into leaves!
The cable stamps a star onto the orange
and aspirates color into the flesh:
at the opposite pole, the nub,
hard, sure, and full, but disconnected,
protruding; nipples that want attention,
want warmth. And where is the tree?
Where are the feeling hands?
A bowl waits patiently, thinking its cold atoms
into alive and receptive, smoothing out its smooth
with the cream of afternoon light.
Pinch the oranges at the green
tips with a burst of fresh.
The bowl breathes in. It awaits.