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,
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.