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Orpheus w/o Regrets

we’ve no choice but to see, our eyes clicking like jaws:

a pond of black porcelain, thawing;
the browned apple, bruised while on the branch;
that choir of pill bugs, warming itself,
breath by breath, by armored breath.

we wish it were otherwise, this helpless projection, this endowing
of mud with mood; wish these scriptures of tender observation
were not so bent
toward that which enthralls our trailing shades.

in the meantime, look, the hours have sprouted tiny hairs
called seconds, and they take joy in growing long, fierce;
in the end we’ve no voice in the matter, cannot glance back at
the archaic beloved—only a lateral recognition of the stripped
and twisting orchards
growing swiftly on either side—

at the end of every tree’s bare limbs, a glove;
and within each glove, grasped: the leaves.

1 thought on “Orpheus w/o Regrets”

  1. Such startling imagery here: the pond of black porcelain, seconds as tiny hairs sprouted on the hour, which makes me think of clock-hands as living flesh …. the Orpheus imagery deftly embedded in the poem’s heart … beautiful, dark and unsettling, Peter.

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