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Orange Gotham

Matthew 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


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.

Matthew Hittinger

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