The market clocks have gone to sleep.
Someone still peels an orange in the dark,
and the kitchen fills with a small, gold weather.
Pith under the nail. A window left unlatched.
The night, for a moment, tastes like morning.
The market clocks have gone to sleep.
Someone still peels an orange in the dark,
and the kitchen fills with a small, gold weather.
Pith under the nail. A window left unlatched.
The night, for a moment, tastes like morning.