Four tracks scoring a scorching retreat
down your back
(gently now, we are not so young any more)
four tracks scoring the orange
hard,
as the smell takes over all else
and the colour dirties my fingernails
and I think
shall I end this? Shall I end
this parallel descent of my fingers?

Do I mark this obsession
with indelible raised furrows,
a monument to a history
of palpable happiness,
possible, plausible pleasurable
Bliss
or
do I go back to
Zen.

Nothing but ripples on pristine sand,
contained neatly,
purposefully,
quietly
in palest grey.
No smell, no colour,
no dank, organic smell,
no bigger purpose than staying
perfectly
still.