The seed of a clementine is on my tongue, the window's chill a medium between the cold and I, with my lips, closed up around it as a tomb, hoarfrost on a stone, creaks open along the seam. The seed is on my tongue--this seed, no other--its close seeming, a seam between myself and latent orchards, the sun inside its own skin, a rind, scales away, breaks away in this piece and that, the flesh stripped, void of frozen air knocks against my lips as if listening for a pulse, echoed response, pulp of each membrane burst, from my tongue--this seed, no other--in the dark, warm tomb of my mouth, begins a tree.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
The Seed
The seed of a clementine is on my tongue, the window's chill a medium between the cold and I, with my lips, closed up around it as a tomb, hoarfrost on a stone, creaks open along the seam. The seed is on my tongue--this seed, no other--its close seeming, a seam between myself and latent orchards, the sun inside its own skin, a rind, scales away, breaks away in this piece and that, the flesh stripped, void of frozen air knocks against my lips as if listening for a pulse, echoed response, pulp of each membrane burst, from my tongue--this seed, no other--in the dark, warm tomb of my mouth, begins a tree.
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