THREE BLACK ORANGES Poem by Claire Potter

Snow tracks filled with nightfall, strange
how ice so quickly erodes
leather soles, flying foxes, imported oranges

Part of the frozen river; against the hull meaning
dips: Bukowski turns
to Oedipus
via Prokofiev & pens footnotes
to his father's reckless semen

writes how he wishes his I
had never been born, his trick that he'd
been stuck with

Three black oranges
cradled in park snow, flaccid as liver
croak with the muscularity of
an oboe when
I crush them with a stick

Spilling out of my pockets
envelopes distributed like dull frosted pea-
nuts - In the parking lot
I pass a bevy of disembowelled post boxes
drinking turps &
begging me
for the hiss of a letter

there only remains to say since writing
has become impossible:

hooked fish think of water
only as well as they can

your invisible calm
balances fruitfully a circle of dampening stones.