The Peel Comes Away

In this poem, an orange
rests on a blue plate.
The peel comes away in one long curl,
then breaks
just before the end.

There is the expected shape,
and there is what the hand discovers.

A two-minute song now exists.
Another is in progress.
The longer span has become
something that can be played,
while the next still asks for time.

No description can taste the fruit.
No bright curve on a screen
can tell us whether every word
will reach a listener clearly.

That part remains to be heard.

Meanwhile, the orange opens
into sections:
a verse,
a reply,
a place where the refrain
might return with something changed.

One piece is smaller.
The circle holds.

An uneven phrase can belong
if it carries the thought.
A balanced phrase can fail
if the meaning falls behind.

Try the words at speaking pace.
Notice where the mouth wants air.
Keep the change small enough
to know what changed.

On the plate,
a bead of juice gathers
at the torn edge.

The imagined fruit
has offered all it can.
The song must answer
in its own material.

Keep this version.
Give the next a separate name.

The blue between the sections
is still blue,
still room.