A vault. A key. The unexpected scent of orange blossoms. Bloom room.
Two tumblers with 32 teeth; clockwork orange and morning fruit. Sweet tang. Shock burns like a new sun the bright spark charging off the shelf from her safety deposit box. Reclamation and somewhere she left her map. She lost the known.
Well it’s all street now anyways. Dance. Dodge that car, food stall, heckler, stop sign–coffee for the weary and the crossed; hung up on iTunes and indifferent hum. Forget them all. Fuck those boys.
Ghost in the shell.
Stars in her pocket.
Ovation in the public restroom. Ovation in the cubicle crush. Carnal cross the formica desk world of exactly 3 ft. Inches just don’t matter, when you’re under the counter and dreaming.
She heard a song once, about sunshine. Only sunshine.
Eats an orange every day till she finds it again. Beatbox of light.
An ocean waits for her somewhere, heaving.
And so do I.
So come on tight rope walks with me,
across the waves;
come and waltz the spaces between valleys of sea,
where fish forget
or only fly