thick citrus of an idea
mists the air with the smell of oranges
as i dig my thumbs into it
peeling back the initial image
eager to explore the delicious ins and outs
eager for juice to dribble
and for hands to remain sticky with remnants,
depositing residual wonderings on everything else
that i touch today.
the skin pulls away and the plump flesh emerges...
except it doesn't.
i hold an empty rind of a poem
nothing in it
and my hand is slick with superficial oils