Ultraviolet rays, in position, dance 92.894 million miles

away. Yet sunlight wavers across multitudes of spatial 
planes that permeate your body. And somehow, no matter

how far distance may seem, depending on point-of-view, 
warmth presses the nape of your neck or imprints the apple

of your cheek. A vast-void sequined in patterns of purpose 
might astonish you. At night, looking up at the sky makes

you wonder why so many ellipses mark sheets laid across 
the zenith, but more importantly, what lies yonder. But right

now, you are among a grove of oranges, varying in size and 
fragrance—buds greening into existence, pericarps leathery

and rinding terpenes-flavonoids. You’ve meandered through 
the rows of oranges countless times, the area’s schematics

ingrained in memory. Your hands powdery and astringent 
clayed on by oranges and dust, but another scent cracks

through the façade like a time-warp unpeeling. One you
remember clearly, amidst blooms, crates, and insectoids

droning throughout, another world bleeds beyond threshold 
like white light refracted through the eye of a prism. Not

everyone is wary of this fissure, most are oblivious of its 
presence, but not the few that are privy to its history. You’re

not the only one that remembers. This tear is evocative of 
the wound inflicted on the land. Hooves, hands, mouths

incongruously defamiliarized topography, although they 
tried to rip out the roots, a vast network amalgamated,

more than fruit grew from soil manufactured weave a 
reminder for trespassers, that you and a legion still remain.