anatomy of oranges

you’re not adams apple

the fruits from tree of the knowledge
of good and evil
in the middle of the garden of eden
in genesis

yet at you
the round oranges of this afternoon-town
i stare

and my pate gradually
becomes pregnant

the wind that comes after
having a touch of your lips
puts the waging of its tail on my forehead

and my guava-leaf begins to melt

thus my hardware-business is going
into liquidation

the physician to the king is telling
it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with
the morbidity of the three humours of the body

used and used and used

your smile has not yet become
stupid

so from where the lamp-posts of the
town start

there are the cutlets and the bolster
they are not the only to utter the last words

i’m too
in this summer
trying to decorate
the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony

if any soundless dew-drop comes
to prepare and feed me
my birth-day frumenty

but i’ve no tongue
at all

all over the face there are only the eyes

and to the fate of my staring-at
has ever so much blessings been available