Two

I find myself going back, time and time again,

To the Breuer’s exhibit on Madison Ave,

            To see, the installation of two 

Oranges; their peels, left to blacken,

Then sewn back together in careless loops

Of thread. 

They look like a pair of smashed baseballs.  

Even within the box of glass, where they wait –

            For whom, I know not yet – the black

Gets blacker. Biology waits for none –this stiff process

            Of collapse. The pores of skin,

Visibly rot, but don’t, however, crumble.

A sign on the side says, the installation is

            A symbolism. No nuances further described–perhaps

Leaving to my imagination, this odd, patient couple.

            I think of bodies, then, and how they perish,

Yet memories, that remain.