I peeled open an orange.
Inside was a rotten orange,
and the rotten orange split open.
Inside: another rotten orange.
An orange, an orange, orange,
oranges—and another,
until dead oranges
spilled over my counter.

Spilling, as in the distance, the distance
spills, like wild blackbirds
pouring themselves over a horizon,
a horizon at the edge of a lake.
Like a lake pressing concrete walls
of a dam, the lake overflowing,
spilling, over the lake, spilling—the lake,
spilling the way sunset bleeds daylight
into the horizon meeting the lake.

Like a blackbird snatching up
a blackbird, a spilling blackbird
with eyes, spilling, spilling;
a blackbird with a lake
on the tip of her tongue—
like a blackbird snatching up
a rotten orange in her beak,
in the distance, a gunshot.