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3. he was writing on an orange peel





HE WAS WRITING ON AN ORANGE PEEL


and touching me. The words were citrus; fingertips sticky and bitter
dripping sun.


I half-slept half-woke into the dense lavender air of winter dawn
as the foxes mated in the distance.


He named my birthmarks after Greek islands

and then we lay there, still

like dead birds melting into muddy snow.



A soft breeze kept my eyelids cold

and for a brief moment
I thought I was sleeping under

the night sky:            
                                (white lace on a sun-burnt t-shirt,
                                 heavy with sweat)


yet as I felt the foxes’ cries pulsing against the edge of my skin at night,

I was thrown back into the bliss of an instant

blistering and almost drunk,

on the feral scent of pheromones and extraordinary light.























Mark