For breakfast I have filled
a pan with coconut oil &
trembling petunias, that tobacco
cousin that I now season w/ the underside
of nothing. The scent of night?
Gone. You can’t mix petunias
w/ petunias. It’s daytime now,
birdsong clanging at the window
& the ocean tripping over itself
like a lime-green staircase.
I’m handing you a word, it’s
“circumference,” & you catch
my drift immediately. Circumference
hula-looping your lips. The private
garden of your sternum bare.