The Orange in the Open
On a day without flags or false bottoms we were headed out to dinner when we saw on the tar of the parking lot an orange where it had come to rest or risen from the vena cava of our longing. Neither crushed nor venerable, it was round and good. No grommet in its side declared it a faker or trap. Was it there to colonize a world safe for citrus or to lead rolling expeditions to trip us into fruition? Irrationally we saw ourselves joining the Irish Free State or heading for Odessa on behalf of this tiny sun. Brighter than iron rust, more fragrant than hibiscus, quietly it began to order our hearts' hierarchy. At the top was the heart's own expansion, chamber by chamber, room by admitting room. After that, a concentric ripple effect came over the Riviera of our conduct. O we were wildly civilized by this dimpled Buddha. After dinner, it was still there, its shadow grown long as a path. We marvelled stoutly and set off to do surprising good.
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