Orange by Jane Kennedy Stuppin


One truth is the fruit.
The tide less ocean of orange,
the ripples of its landless shores.

Would you like a piece of my orange?
You know its limits. There is no vanishing point:
Only the pulp, the juice, the white seeds.

Einstein must have had a sense of taste for the orange.
Itís all relative to whose mouth eats which orange.

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Jane Kennedy Stuppin

Poetry

 

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