Rita Dove Poems
After all, there's no need
to say anything
at first. An orange, peeled
and quartered, flares
like a tulip on a wedge wood plate
Anything can happen.
Outside the sun
has rolled up her rugs
and night strewn salt
across the sky. My heart
is humming a tune
I haven't heard in years!
Quiet's cool flesh—
let's sniff and eat it.
There are ways
to make of the moment
so the pleasure's in
Just when hope withers, the visa is granted.
The door opens to a street like in the movies,
clean of people, of cats; except it is your street
you are leaving. A visa has been granted,
'provisionally'-a fretful word.
The windows you have closed behind
you are turning pink, doing what they do
every dawn. Here it's gray. The door
to the taxicab waits. This suitcase,