This evening’s sky refrained from blazing,
and illuminately pulled away instead.
I forgot to pack lunch,
and the orange the sweatered boy holds to me
does not catch me on fire
but smells waxy wet and like the grocery store
even here on the desert mountain
When I pop the slice pods with my molars,
the fruit is neon sweet to the sand’s beige.
The tiger is a jungle flower
and a traffic signal
and dripping paint on a black rug.
You asked me why I didn’t know how
about the leaves on the mountain.
I don’t respond;
Orange is a complicated emotion.
-Citron
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