there is fog in my orchard, and i am bare, made of flowers  

among my orange trees (stallions wrapped in cotton) 

my father (the sun) bursts through all at once 

he cannot speak; he spits freckles 

like sunflower seeds on my outstretched cheeks and collar bones 

 
his rays run, slam, stay on  

eaves of houses in the welsh town 

seven miles northwest of me 

rubs raspberries on the cheeks of children he passes,  

roughly staining, thumbs denting cheeks, molding clay 

 
in the field, i am puckered with spider veins, liver spots,  

crow’s feet from squinting. 

the fog hangs, still, as the day swells to its peak 

and i climb through her, bare body’s hips stacked against orange tree

knees smothering mists of juice out of her underripe fruit 

 
and all at once, look down at the trees from above 

and the sun sets in little sharp pieces,  

and darkness falls, and all of a sudden my head can spin 

all the way around, and there is no dignity in it 

and it’s not time for me to sleep yet