I’ve been noticing lately that citrus fruit makes frequent appearance in my poetry, which I guess must be tied in some way to my perception the world. While on vacation in Maine, for instance, I thought that the sun frequently hung in the sky like a lemon and set like an apricot. The moon was sometimes lime green. Maybe the root of this obsession of mine has something to do with Eluard’s observation that the world is “blue as an orange.” The long trip to the new world my ancestors took back in the seventeenth century must certainly be a contributing factor: I have often contemplated those contemporary commonplaces that must’ve seemed like such a luxury to a settler, namely the sweet flesh of a peach or the pink extravagance of a fresh grapefruit. When life gives you lemons, write poems.