How does history peel an orange, and why? I have carved an error from sweetness but the sky ignores me. There are many forms of old joy, other ways to taste memory. The inside goes outside for a peach. Yellow at night, time’s armload of flesh. And a museum of tendrils, lost ribs of yesterday. Like a mineral, I have gestated in the dirt, and cradled your seeds. These fibers of the origin are not a labyrinth. My fingers are stained with pulp. How to peel my heart and where to put the pieces.