Come dusk, bearings you had switch to mountain lights, 
tracks through the orange groves are one and the same. 
If you could finger-nail a newall or navel, 
ask hand and eye to peel your windfall until 
zest showers to a single strip and earth that,
the luminous thread might lead you home.
Such are the desperate remedies of the lost.
Your mouth is stopped with pulp, teeth stab and clatter 
against seeds; those who know the way, would undo 
the paper-like skin, ease the fruit into polite 
segments, leave pips for the path.  Juice rushes headlong.
You meet its odd sweetness, a zinging orange with caution 
as a back taste, and another sense directs you,
to blindly unpeel a world that is not your own.



Bruce Barnes