Heat is invisible but rises,
like the memory of a tree
streams off the orange
you hold in your hand.
That orange was true
as a photograph –
it really happened.
(Remember?)
I believe in love
and the way it leaves you –
a particle and a wave –
until the source is gone
and you’re out like a light.
Goodnight. Turn to the cool
outer edge of the sheet.
The ceiling heat stroked
by the sleepy fan.
The smell of orange blossoms
thickening the dark.
from Poetry Northwest 05.1 Spring & Summer 2010More by Sierra Nelson from the library
Copyright © Sierra Nelson
Used with the permission of the author
on behalf of Poetry Northwest.