In the morning against the gray of the sidewalk and the sky, this tangerine is the only bright thing. I open the orange skin
in one piece to show its white side, blooming around a closed fist tangled in matted thread. I urge an orange finger
to uncrook, pull to crack the knuckle. It pops away from the rest, leaves loose threads dangling in winter. I cup the orange curve
in my palm, keep the juice rolling along the lines and then falling, dripping light on the concrete. I burst the orange flesh against my teeth with my tongue.