in all grins, in all flourishes of pastel yellow
my fingertips, yuzu-stained paper-thin
cheerey citrus (their physical comedy, rind slick with wax)
in the drying shed
you can hold them up
as if it is the most important thing you’ve ever done
each hue bright-sour, soft as chalk
my back against the soft orange wood, listening
to the symphony of the shapes (skin prickling tiny violins)
we all wanted that glimmering light, their ancient formulas
i’d rather you find the coldest glass of milk
while the fruits rest under their own weight