Opened Orange  22.02.2012

 
Oscar Wilde lives

of all the story writing in truth I am tired, I am out of juice
I know what paths I walked before , I was there
what's worse I am becoming into a talker pointing down old roads.

Swallows fly to Africa, they don't sit on high wires with whys
chattering like sparrows, they up and go or stay to pluck sapphires
from golden prince's eyes and give them to the poor.

I am still waiting for my swallow though I have a ruby under my pillow.
Walking along the motorway back from the supermarket
late on and in the dark, with food to eat but still lacking juice
the grocer man is closing his stall, he massages an orange

a small moon in his hands then the wow sweet zest comes at me
straight from the garden of eden, fresh and warm as dawn
perfection released into the night. I find there are no words
for what peeled me open and let my own cry out that night