Like clockwork oranges
palm leaves bloom snow
and I cycle my fruits
of labor into a white
segmented tube.  I pick up
the fallen citrus sphere
with a dry branch losing
the battle, and the weight
cracking my arm
like an albino chiropractor.

A fierce tropical wind
waves my friend’s thorns
from across the threadbare blank
blanket and cold SNAP
his arm, too – damn war.
We rest back without green
screen and hibernate
under mutual respect.
My seed is frozen and sterile,
my Minute Maid iced.