Ripe In The Arbours Of The Nose

Even rippled with sun the greens of a citrus grove darken like ocean deepening from shore. Each tree is full of shade. A shadowy fast spiral through and a crow's transfixed an orange to carry off and mine its latitudes and longitudes till they're a parched void scrotum. Al-Andalus has an orange grove planted in rows and shaven above to form an unwalkable dream lawn viewed from loggias. One level down, radiance in a fruit-roofed ambulatory. Mandarin, if I didn't eat you how could you ever see the sun? (Even I will never see it except in blue translation). Shedding its spiral pith helmet an orange is an irrigation of rupture and bouquet rocking the lower head about; one of the milder borders of the just endurable is the squint taste of a lemon, and it was limes, of dark tooled green which forgave the barefoot sailors bringing citrus to new dry lands. Cumquat, you bitter quip, let a rat make jam of you in her beardy house. Blood orange, children! raspberry blood in the glass: look for the five o'clock shadow on their cheeks. Those are full of blood, and easy: only pick the ones that relax off in your hand. Below Hollywood, as everywhere the trees of each grove appear as fantastically open treasure sacks, tied only at the ground