A TV viewed
through a closed window
and the sound of roots lifting.
Grow, grow, grow! Turn your roots
upside-down and suck the sky
from the glass. Then, break it.
My boots are two horse heads
singing for their spines, bone trees
above the pay phone
where we meet. An orange hangs
from the branches. You peel the rind
with your teeth, telling me to hold
out my hand not for the fruit
but for three seeds that you fold
in my palm. Two are for the horses.
The last, you say, is for you.
And was it worth it, you ask,
the leaving? Was it worth
the view of Sunset Acres when,
looking back, you thought you heard
the clomp of earth on boxes?
real sugar. Here,
a cafe empty
but for our clinking spoons
and your forest, the city ripe
with fruit. Pouring banana milk
in our coffee, we remember
deserts, white mountain
air conditioning. A boom box clings
to a passing car. Here,
a breeze like hot radio.