[wpaudio url=”/audio/december11/Rydell.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
I slit the longitude of an orange
the dog thought was a baseball
and almost got, the grocer wished
was a wad of cash to eat and eat,
the grove owner saw as his fist
grown triumphant against the fist of his father,
the migrant worker, her very first day,
believed was the sun.