Tangerines

I eat tangerines every morning as if they were slices of the sun. They taste delicious but they also taste like replacement, like the missing of what they stand in for. Their sweet flame takes its stand against the long wet smear of this time of year, and some mornings manages to stave off the gray.

Other mornings, like this one, the tangerines can't even masquerade as their symbolic approximations, no matter how carefully I assign their metaphors. Today, tangerines can't begin to trick my tongue into tasting the warm light whose touch, like yours, I have gone too long without.

The Land Is A Body So Love It

I go down into dreaming easily, though sometimes awake.
Where the laws of physics are not recognized in court.
The city extends itself in bridges like arms stretching from one's shoulders to another's.
I sink easily into the thickness of the palpable world, merging the boundary like a bridge makes two landmasses one.
If I opened my chest would the contours of my organs mirror the geography of the land that is in my blood?
A vein that smiles through the eye of the world. A heart that loves through the vein of the world.
The landscapes of the possible are infinite, yet within this body. Below natural and constructed surfaces.
Hands are stitches that bind the two sides of invisible wounds with tiny bridges cemented with lust, stretching thirstily for waters they cover yet never touch.