there's blood on the oranges
and the devil at my doorstep, dressed in
fine black silks; a sudden somber mood
fills the house, and then I stop to think
in which universe must I
transfer to traverse among
full and empty bookshelves,
fruits intact? in which place do I
let my words flow unbridled
flecks of blood still in my body?
will the damn oranges
decompose in the dirt
because they hadn't been picked
or will they be fakes, and
will the blood stay on for days?
nobody seems to know
or they don't want to tell me in the first place.
