Christopher Citro and Dustin Nightingale
The way a room changes when someone's peeled an orange. The rind like cupped hands on the coffee table. Everything gets a little bit better in the room or it makes smells like you are trying to cover up something like morning snow looking at the sun. Like night eventually arrives. How many orange peels do you have to see on the snow before it becomes a problem? Each lightning comes to us through the falling ice drops multiplied. All that boneflash. I can see the skeleton in you. In the peel. In the skin. In the wind some archaic howl sounding the alarm. It's too cold to inhale without coughing. I don't want us to leave this sidewalk. You standing close enough for me to breathe your air. Ten years from now I want this to still be happening. I'm dedicating my life to our vertebrae laid out along the earth like baby shoes, like a baguette not yet placed in an oven, like meat with bones in it.