your awry body
rests in my palm
easy fingers curl over
your sponge pore scalp
holding your forehead
in place like an infant’s.
your scent is the same tender
reverie of a baby head;
instead of a clean running creek,
you smell sun bleached
hands brightly glossed,
shoes torn with no socks
remember how they
sprint and waddle in the orchard row
like small birds
who shake your trees when they sing.
This poem makes me want to be an orange
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