breaking points to mend waves

what normal things pursue are enormous avenues of everyday oranges
sleeping in nets, stuck to the roof of a trench, spoiling for a spite…
as bombs drop lemons overseas, so your passport singapores
where the air is thin enough to be a god on vacation
and nothing bores you like knowing things-

that are all about you

as your mirrors dive into your eyes, with blue chestnuts and marble clouds
affixed to your Shakespeare, with ghost pitards and sumptuous noise.
your unspeakables; spoken in an echo chamber of stars-
where love is spice and yearning is a clock on wall
feeble as time

in the face of a clock.