I Take You Out

Among tall silver birches. Dogs yipping 
beyond the timberline. 
In my bag, a clementine for us to split. 
The river’s image trembles as you dip 
your foot in, raking the pebbles back and forth 
till silt rises to the surface.

Memory’s solace loses fast its shine.

Halved, the clementine resembles two lungs. 
I take each in my hands, a child 
showing off caught snow. 
In this moment, neither of us is dead. 
Time—mine, at least—is endless. 
I give you the unbruised half 
to right the balance.

Days unravel. Oceans unspool. 
At the end, which is nearly 
the beginning, I hear you say: 
To a fruit fly, this clementine is Saturn, and 
every match is a forest fire 
that will soon be ash. 
               Is ash. Was ash. And now 
is nothing. Because of the wind. 
How swiftly it moves.