The bag of tangerines
deep frying its light
under the pretence of love,
or the unforgiving surveillance
of several high wattage bulbs,
is about as convincing
as the platypodes swapping numbers
with the cuttlefish, their common
honesty glowing like a shared
genetic politeness. I never had
such policies – you loved me
like a weed determined to be
a B-movie in the face of
the atomic bomb rattling towards
a conclusion, while I was
the stillness rooted in a moment
about to be blanked out of existence.
Forget the fruit, let’s bump lines.