I am still half asleep when I stumble

towards the fridge, take two oranges

out of the crisper and find the sharp knife.

I slice them in half, then press the skin down

on the green glass dome, watching the juice flow

into the moat below the ridged hill, twisting

and twisting until I shift as much pulp as possible.

I tip the juice into a glass and put a slice of bread

into the toaster. The newspaper lies on the bench.

I notice a number of people standing upside down,

their heads where the ground should be. I grin

as I turn the paper around. Now, I see a man

lying on the ground, a man with long, messy hair

like mine. He is lying on his stomach, his head

turned to the side, an ear held upright, as if listening.

A stream of blood appears to begin beneath his head

and flow to the edge of the photograph. The blood

is furrowed, as if an afternoon wind is blowing

across the surface of a river. There’s a tiny white

island on the concrete, in the shape of a chilli,

which his blood has not swamped. A woman

reaches out to touch his arm below the press studs

of a rolled-up shirt, as if she’s searching for a pulse.

She has a leather bag slung over her shoulder

and the jacket tied around her waist is adorned

with these dinky cowgirl fringes. The blood

running over the concrete is darker than her hair

and darker than the shadows of the people

standing around the young man. I don’t know

what to say, what to think. My toast is cooling

in the toaster. I stare at my orange juice.

I stare at the ripple of blood that must now be

flowing beyond the border that marks the end

of the photograph and, in a strange way, its beginning.