A Study of Oranges

It might never happen, I say. 

The wind might rise 
on the lake and then every 
image would be broken, 
scattered into itself. 

Two boys stand on the bridge, 
tossing oranges into the water, 
watching the long cones 
of the splashes. 

It is winter. 
Into this snowy landscape 
the oranges seem to carry 
their own light—the definitive 
shapes of incursion, sharp 
solitude made real. 

Sometimes I pretend I am the wind
and begin shouting. 

The last orange drops 
perfectly. Its reflection 
sails up toward the swift eclipse 
of the splash.