Heat is invisible but rises,
like the memory of a tree
streams off the orange
you hold in your hand.That orange was true
as a photograph—
it really happened.
(Remember?)I believe in love
and the way it leaves you—
a particle and a wave—
until the source is gone
and you’re out like a light.

Goodnight. Turn to the cool
outer edge of the sheet.
The ceiling heat stroked
by the sleepy fan.
The smell of orange blossoms
thickening the dark.

I need a way to pack my things
so I can keep them.A book weighs less than one pound
and also tips the scale over fifty.

What a strange reason to get rid of a thing.
Whisks are sold in almost every country.

Several times I’ve boxed my belongings
only to find them, later, less important.

But I will want
these margin notes.
The glass fish.

*

Where I’m going, fruit named after dirt.
The day pulls the earth to its edges.

Where I’m going, fills with water.

In the new place, I have, so far, only two sets of memories.
Former sets I grab by the spine, try to shake
the unnecessities out of.

I’m a barn swallow, perched on the wire, owning
nothing. In truth, the swallow owns Idaho
while passing through.