Eric Cruz: In This Land

Evening, wind
        wrestling one
                  brief rush from the hundred flame
 -like leaves in the grove.  Oranges
                                        the season

                     between these gravities. 

Our child in her longest shadow runs through the hymn
                         of fruit and light,
                                            of air
that picked up the dark
and so picked itself
                                          to be something cool and soft.

Everywhere, citrus
                                          and fantasy
                ripples electric on the tongue,
                                      the trees themselves night pillars.

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