Geraniums

The thing I fear most is diminishment.

Last night I was greedy for what could still be:

I want go to Rio, I slurred.

I wanna keep chickens! Try mescaline!

But tender mornings are about small things:

light tortoise-shelling the flat, a sip of juice, a DVD.

I’ve a fat stack of weekend papers

and my husband is whistling Spanish Flea.

On the windowsill, geraniums pulse,

sunsets on stalks, grenadine and coral.

I failed to water them. Fallen petals

are saying: you must love this.