Open to All Kenneth Pobo

Needing Orange Blossoms

Your face is a wad of crumpled
paper; your body
is deep into the recliner.

I don't know what to tell you—
everything sounds like pennies
falling into a tin cup.

I want to send you a crate
of orange blossoms from Florida
bursting open between slats.

My bag holds the usual lies
that never bear fruit or the smell
of fruit forming in the bud.
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