--- A M Y   H O L M A N

We begin our day
in air warmer than our bloods,
below sky without blemish.
The lions are napping.
My best friend turns the radio dial.

Dry rails clattering,
a freight train passes, bloom-bloom,
bloom-bloom, slicing the quiet
summer valley of the stadium.
Yet, we feel drenched with the taste

of invisible juice--
our pores now taste buds, our
tongues, jealous.
The gills of our car are giving us
orange, the backs of our throats are

sweating. Not far perfume
from behind the rind,
but fruit crushed on wheels.
How is this, where?
Not cartons, not bottles, not skin,

just juice, gladdening
a universe of track. I'd been
so sad, betrayed by something I had
not seen and here, I rise, like
Andrew Wyeth's girl in a yellow field,

smelling the truth of how life
rights itself. My best friend lifts
her chin and stretches
her neck, little blue heron
in the pleasures of marsh.