We eat orchid for breakfast. A rosemary olive oil toast.
This love is an outlier. This loaf is still soft at the center.
Interpreter of my sighs, you ask One or two slices, habibti?
What is it? You say you see mold on the crust.
When I bought the print of two women, You say throw the whole thing away.
I didn’t yet know it would be of us. I cut the crust off and feed us anyway.
My heart, Pumpkin buttered in late autumn.
trouble builds above our valley. We survive on the slight rot of winter.
Beloved, your neck is soft and sweet You, who display gerbera daisies
in the morning. at my bedside, in an old saké glass,
The image is usually of rock, balanced on the brink of catastrophe.
I see a feather— You are graceful with your loss,
your willingness to be your fruit cored. I am
blown in the wind of my grief. always decomposing.
My mouth moves anger, Your mouth moves night,
but means to say gratitude. but means to say luminous.
You cannot, will not. I have to relive that lunar cycle.
Luminous point, incandescent, You and I are moonshine.
a star is both light and bomb. The stuff gold is made of.