Again From the Window

for Carolyn Forché

In front of the house
a bulb is finally up
and the flower is red.

In the park, blue
dark boughs reach
below a grey cover.

There is a woman, holding
in a bethel
the heart

she is not in this green and wet vista
portioned
by this window.

I look from this spring and
turn off the radio.

I do not see all that I hear
and I confound and
lose all scale

certain volcanos
on the study globe
brood
among the miracles of waters
that do not fall from the sphere

in a dry room
a large orange
holds the eye

ill-fashioned dirks
press through the fruit
into a wet fist.

It is said
some oranges have this colour.

I return to the window
and hope to see
the one who tells me this.