I tend to keep orange peels
sinking into the sinews sketched into
the dark tunnel shouldered by lips.
The fragrance of browning rinds
tends to make amends with my taste
in a fit of spawned sour heat
that my collective day-dream
no matter the caustic tongue's touch.
The mouth's helm scurries into excitement
on such open-window white-paint high rise joy
that my heds leads me to shake
in a frantic pouncing dance
that causes my breaths to be locked
amidst a red faced quietness
capturing each forward vision
in want of some sweet fruit,
no matter the melancholic roots.