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The oranges are dreaming


by Samuel Derrick Rosen


All that restores collapses
on its own delicious footprint,
everything is seed,
everything is pulp,
the phantom hum of icons.

The Earth is chained to its noise,
here are the leaves, here
is the grass, here
are the bones, here
is the dust...

The oranges are dreaming
that they have turned to apples.


Version 2:

Everything is seed, everything is pulp,
the phantom hum of icons. The Earth
chained to its noise, Art-house

aficionados, fungal infested psyches,
soft but shady street vendors
on the brink of a pseudo war. Cue the

little moments of nature
that seem designed to torture,
amid the mock infusions
of liberty in spades, chicken hearts
doth beat, commune the
sight-impaired photographers,
insensitive Andy Warhols. Unto fixations
on extra-terrestrial mega structures
the lightbulbs flicker interminably,
the trickster retires to mourn
the mechanics of his love, or meditate
maniacally on the lifespan of mosquitoes.
Here are the leaves, here is the grass,
here are the bones, here is the dust, all

that restores collapses, on its own
delicious footprint. The oranges are
dreaming that they have turned to apples.
Endcap