Anatomy of the Oranges

you’re not adams apple the fruits from tree of the knowledge of good and evil in the middle of the garden of eden in genesis yet at you the round oranges of this afternoon-town i stare and my pate gradually becomes pregnant the wind that comes after having a touch of your lips puts the waging of its tail on my forehead and my guava-leaf begins to melt thus my hardware-business is going into liquidation the physician to the king is telling it’s the symptom of an awful fever attended with the morbidity of the three humours of the body used and used and used your smile has not yet become stupid so from where the lamp-posts of the town start there are the cutlets and the bolster they are not the only to utter the last words i’m too in this summer trying to decorate the gate of my cage like wedding ceremony if any soundless dew-drop comes to prepare and feed me my birth-day frumenty but i’ve no tongue at all all over the face there are only the eyes and to the fate of my staring-at has ever so much blessings been available