Poetry

Into the sky, tonight

I cycle home
evening skies glowing
a winter bouquet

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Satsuma

Week old, in the bowl,
skin still smooth, colour still bright.
Left behind. Fading.
Don’t peel her, don’t touch her skin.
Flesh inside wrinkled. Coarse
and dry, now. Deflated, don’t bite. Bitter
she bleeds. Poison waits,
seeping.