scrawled in longhand. It faded
letter by letter. I know a series,
"ORANGES," of twelve poems.

It had to wait for Frank O’Hara
to delete every granule of ORANGE
from its lines. Whenever I hear
granule, I think COUSCOUS.

I’m conscious I may not be,
which makes me self-conscious. I feel
a sprawl of orange creeping up

my neck. I am (I think) here, now,
tapping characters conscientiously,
watching them ant across
the screen into orange couscous.