I can’t drink from navels
tangerine or blood
once I tried, truly,
but nothing compared
to that spry spring
and our fruity affair
pressed from the clemen-
time, never knowing
if there’d be enough,
orange drops dribbled to
that little glass cup
it wasn’t until
my hands gone long sore,
I realized that there
was nothing more
hardly any juice made,
a puddle really,
that quickly evaporated
just like you leaving
a pulpy perfume
lingered in the air.