Evan Bazel
O’Hara wrote Oranges then about Oranges and Sardines
In late March Love introduced me to Trader Joe’s chocolate-covered orange-jelly sticks
I stopped writing walls I reached out from the ashen balcony I tried to touch the treeline
The ‘I’ still looks and tastes like a skinny cigarette but it blooms
The ember doesn’t just air-eat it photosynthesizes
Cousin Ray writes fire code for the FDNY’s legal bureau and he said fire is nocturnal
Not benignly, as raccoons or ravers, he said not benignly
I can’t see but I am sure Oranges and Sardines are scrawled in a distant aunt’s hand
Along the obsidian hawkwings decapitating the air above the treeline
(I’m not even that crazy about O’Hara)
I’m sure there’s more to Being than a cigarette or a hornet
There’s more it’s just hidden by the wing of the Fascist warplane
The balcony is ash and concrete and has a black railing over the railing is fresh brick
The color of sundried blood but if you make if far enough the trees are green
Bright green, and a splash of salmon
(I’m not even that crazy about O’Hara)
(I’m not even that crazy about O’Hara)