There is orange peel in my closet, drawing fruit flies, not driving away moths. This means malfunction. In my classroom, an orange floats in a bowl full of water. Here, the world. There are gardeners who like orange trees but not oranges. I ask my students why. None say that fruit must be tended to, plucked. One says, burden. Some think rot, but no one will say that what we do not gather prevents more planting. One says, leave them to feed what follows. The last thing they tell me, birth. Out near Jesuit Bend: Navel, fruit, blossom, offshoot, produce.