The peel of the orange bends, and spews

mist in a line, like a sprinkler hose.

The skin is wet, darkened and glistening

as gently rained on asphalt

            Inner peel is white and almost opaque,

It's a lantern of paper, clumped and soggy

mica flakes

falling upwards towards a lit candle the peel

juice flares inflame. There's a sound of a struck match,

magically flaring up.

            The white peel is crumbing and thinning.

Lace is still sitting on the floor, forgotten

As the peels you rush to throw away,

Thought of as a simple wrapper