Hannah wearing Tangerine
The chrysanthemums
push through sidewalk
corners; a dozen chinks
of parted hairlines, girls
with their toes on Pointe;
she swallows tangerine
tornadoes when the sky
shivers in its own blood,
overhead lights linger
on lips, skulls reverberate
upward when sentences
break mid-kissed, and
the snow globe streets fizzle
in the May-Day heat; too many
steps toward the arboretum,
but when she wears tangerine
she looks like the sunset; the glint off
the water bridge, surf
from the canoe downstream,
walking alone on the university
campus looking for yourself
as you used to be.

When she falls into arms, limbs
lose fluxion; turning into
polished wood, the tangerine skin
un-plucked from trees.