What's inside
What's inside when you open an orange?
Who had that first thought, opening?
Perhaps not even us. Seeds perhaps?
Beneath flesh and juice, another light
reflecting back, unquenchable.
What's inside when you open desire?
As wide, as far as poppies sitting
orange and aglow beneath blue eyes.
That blush too borrowed, do you see?
What's inside when you open a thought?
As wide and far as poppies do.
And who instructed those seeds?
Shall we be anything less?
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