citrus the color of sunrise

just as a note, these recent ones have mostly been sonnets...ish. am i bad at counting 14, or do i have something in mind? it's a really really open question. tired again, hence...

experientially

a., not the case that night ever is
when day isn't. it's instead a separate case:
mortal skinsack, similar but deified, ruffled,
coursed, petalled into difference:

b., a substantial moan ever is like that. the same is the case
in shades of gray, snatching and refracting
over syllables like skin over the bone.

red and ruby ripe for parting, the same
isn't the night that turns to day, the deity
that turns itself to night,

cratching and spilling all over the place.
the making moans and rolls like rubies: each goblet of skin,
in nether grapefruit where the juice resides,
down the chin, a second oblivion,

unpared.