Peeling Oranges

She watched the record on the turntable, 
April evening seeps into afternoon; 
Time marches relentlessly in circles, 
Presaging a premature encounter, drowned in 
Dawning secrets. Memory 
Defective in a syllogism, culmination in an 
Imperfect conclusion. 

He must have known, and she could not have known. 
What is an evening of uncertainty, 
Wrapped in brown and blue like cattails
On the outskirts of a pond’s horizon, 
Twisted and distended. 
Running fingers through ekphrastic hair, 
Another dream of an incessant helicopter 
(But do not blame the liquor), 
And it is he. 

She awakens from a reverie, 
Bound up in his arms, a sleepless 
Dream of German titled composition, 
Tied up in his curls. She recalls an evening 
Framed with Wagner, laminated with a kiss. 
“Absurdity is just a metonymic 
Fragment of all that you have said to me.” 
Distorted notes fly through a kaleidoscope. 
Whoever saw another oboist versed in mathematics. 

Strange flower: now there’s a thought I cannot say 
In verse. He underestimates the thrill of impuissance. 
She says he knows, yet what has he ever known. 
I don’t presume to answer such a question. 
She cannot remember all that he has said in earnest and in jest. 
Sobriety is delicacy, and she always thought that she 
Knew better, consumed by alcoholic tunes. 
Play the same old song, and don’t remember. 

He embodies an illusion. 
Don’t remember kisses. 

Today she lost an unadulterated
Courage, wandering in ten thousand wishes. 
But never stop composing 
Modicums of hope.