In one moment,
she may see the sky as
millions of miles away
from plastic chairs and little desks
and big push-out windows;
and the closest she gets
to this thing called sky
may be the clouds of dust/
the chalk slapped
from blackboard erasers,
and maybe/
in another moment
she’ll see the sky
touch the thin green hairs
peeking from the earth.
It’s a funny stone’s throw
from the next thought;
how I stand here
eating a round orange
in the middle of January.
It’s all wrong!
A tropical fruit handed to me
between miles of snow and ice/
How long did the orange travel
for the white silence of
winter?
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