An Ode to Pith

– to Pablo Neruda

The orange in the kitchen
Fills the house with scent,
Glowing like the sun glimpsed
From the corner of my eye.

But the skin wrinkles brown
At the touch of the bowl,
The flesh already collapsed
Into the unreachable past.

So I imagine its press upon my lips,
Not caring it is sour and full of seeds.

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