hangs low enough to hit
my head on passing under it
a hard pre-teen orange about
to be infused with all the juice
and pulpiness that will sour
or sweeten the long gulp
to follow carrying in its genes
the first guitars of Salamanca
the hometown of the soul
again and again that green stone
beats me on the head like the knuckles
of Sister Margaret till I turn orange
but still I haven’t quite woken up yet
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