10 minutes

clementine heart,
i think of myself
as the smallest chambers 
as we lay together
& i'm reminded about 
the limits of loving 
someone. about how 
no amount of closeness
can make one body.

we take trowels & 
dig into the box spring,
spitting the pale seeds
into the sheets. i have
three tonight, we count 
them aloud.

will there ever be 
an appropriate time
to tell someone else 
you're thinking about death?

about layering dirt
on top of yourself &
waiting to become 
a tree full of more 
orange-faced fruit.

when i eat citrus 
i dismantle. sprawl
all the lobes on the plate.

i crawl inside the tiniest one
an embryo, a chicken yolk.

inside, i wait ten minutes
before my alarm goes off.
in the nectar you kiss
me & i want to tell you

that i'm sorry that 
there's not enough hours.

an hour is a unit of
bodies. AM a holy hour where
we brush the dirt 
off our chests. 

the big shovel is in
the closet. i use it only
when you don't stay over.

i plant my watches.
i plant bone-white seeds.

i clementine myself,
sleeping bag & sugar.