Orange GothamMatthew Hittinger
How about orange? Well, the roller blader post-roll wears blue crocs (not orange) pulls his hair into a top knot, but neither his hair (gray, brown) nor his hair tie (black) are orange. But he peels an orange : skin pierced, the juice rises and runs, the rough hide sloughed. He stuffs the rind chunks in his skates (black), holds a sun, corona stripped no chromosphere, ball (white) broken in half the halves in quarters : a compass the four coordinates of four corners. Halved to eighths he singles a wedge bites it in two : juice drip from lip (pink), transparent vein partitions, and corpuscles (orange). Is that what the sun, what we look like? I remember Christo’s panels and gates (saffron) sun lit and my first love’s face before it began to fade. Then: shadow city. Now : how about orange in a wooden bowl. Or bowl (orange) on a wooden table. Orange table? How about no orange at all.
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